Mir Image
by Sara Generis
Summary: Before the fall of the Union, Russia attempted some covert curtain-talk of his own . Decades later, he starts it up again for completely mysterious reasons . Unfortunately, neither of Canada's two official languages are batsh*t insane .
1. prologue

**Title**: Mir Image  
**Summary**: Before the fall of the Union, Russia attempted some covert curtain-talk of his own. Decades later, he starts it up again for completely mysterious reasons. Unfortunately, neither of Canada's two official languages are _batshit insane_.  
**Pairing**: Russia/Canada  
**Rating**: M in select future chapters. T for language in general.  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**Notes**: Been working on this one for awhile. Shelved it for about a year but I finally know how to finish it, which means I can post it. I hope the first-person POV doesn't put you off too much!

.:.

0. _(mid-summer; an undetermined year, but somewhere between 1971 and 1991)_

.:.

July 1st has always held, and likely always will hold, a very special place in my heart. I'm almost always in Ottawa for it, except for the times I was overseas (for reasons I'd like not to dwell on). With the increasing lack of wars in which Canada is finding itself mired, I'm able to enjoy the festivities more often.

America's pretty busy with the 4th coming up, so as usual, he doesn't call. Neither does France - France is usually busy with Bastille Day preparations; nor England, who actually doesn't have an excuse besides absent-mindedness. In fact, nobody calls me.

But that's okay, because for this one day, Ottawa magically changes from a sleepy government city - who's stuffy, snobby and self-important without having any real right to be, and who usually rolls up the patios at 9 PM (except for student bars) - into an enthusiastic, high-spirited reveller, drunk and mad with joy. The city itself comforts me with buskers, live music, ice cream, a joyous act of day-long party that floods, literally floods, the streets of downtown. With Ottawa's help, I forget that my family's forgotten me.

Despite Quebec and _la francophonie_ being steps away, even Hull celebrates the Dominion of Canada - okay, probably the statutory holiday part has something to do with it. And if the St-Jean Baptiste celebrations still out-pace the Canada Day celebrations, well... I can ignore that part. My typically somewhat-divided self feels a little more structured, a little more like unity. It's great!

So that was mostly why I was so pissed off that year when America insisted that the meeting - that would ordinarily have been held July 7th - be moved back a week, just because it suited his schedule better. I mean, what the hell? That is my day! I'd never expected cake, I'd never even expected acknowledgement, but can't a nation get the day off work on his birthday like everybody else?

And of course, no amount of protesting on my part was able to sway anybody. It helped that I couldn't be heard. Every time there was a silent moment (I couldn't interrupt people like America does, that's so rude) I had tried to pipe up, but someone talked over me (just! so! rude!). That still happens. Sometimes it's Germany; other times it's Spain.

That time, it was Russia. (Technically his name then was the Soviet Union, but none of the other countries which comprise the Soviet Union - Ukraine, Georgia, Armenia, and all the rest - had been to a single meeting in awhile. Let's call a spade a spade.) "If there could be silence, please," Russia's voice said, delicate and calm, and he didn't even have to use a lot of his 'do not disobey me, fools' undertone for everybody to shut up, including my jerk brother.

God, what I'd give to have that ability instead.

The Soviet Union slowly turned my way, with a curious sort of look that I couldn't completely identify. For a scant moment ... it almost looked like he'd done this for a reason. Did he hear me? Was he doing this for my benefit, so that I could finally speak?

But then Rus- the Soviet Union continued talking about something completely unrelated. Nope. He just wanted to make sure I'd shut up too. Evidently, the Union hadn't forgotten how long it took Canada to formally recognise him. Not like I was ever a real threat. Actually, he probably didn't even notice me. Heard nothing more than a whisper, saw only a vague shadow, thought he was seeing things.

Hosers, all of them. Well, whatever, the less fuss I raised the sooner I'd get out of there.

.:.

And that's how I got stuck working July 1st that year. They did not even give me time and a half. (In Canada, I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but _I_ wasn't hosting.)

It was even a bright, sunny, still day when I left on the 30th - the kind of day that tells you the weather will stay perfect and cloudless for a good half week - and that made me even more upset because the year before that, the fireworks on the Hill were cancelled due to high winds and overcast weather. That meant the budget got shifted a year. I bet they really went nuts that night.

Dammit, America. (It was even worse because when I asked about it before the meeting, he had had a perfectly legitimate reason for having moved the meeting, so I was angry over nothing. That did not stop me from spending most of the meeting sulking away and glaring at America anyway. It made me feel slightly better, but ultimately didn't do anything useful.)

We all got seated in Shanghai and Russia - sorry, Soviet Union - started it off saying something about nielsbohrium, which got America (and Germany) really pissed off, and all three of them wound up arguing for two hours with Denmark jumping in, while France and England bickered amongst each other about the usual stuff. Both of them had had issues lately - France in particular had had some kind of student revolt - and I think what they both wanted was someone to pick on.

The nielsbohrium naming convention issue sounds ridiculous in hindsight, but it was really important then, if only because it meant the Russians - Soviets - oh screw it, Russians - were finally starting to be a little more open about things like their nuclear research. Which I very, very much wanted to know about, if the usual offenders would have done me the courtesy of shutting up so someone else could get a word in edgewise.

We'd planned on breaking for lunch at noon but that ended up being more like one. A late lunch, sure, but you can't stop America once he's started. At which point China informed us he'd ordered in for all of us. America, who didn't like anything that didn't look like a hamburger (and who still doesn't), instantly put an order in for more, 'proper' (American) food, to which China took offence, and quicker than America could say 'MSG is a communist drug' the two of them went at it. Gosh, I kept thinking, I just want to go home...

That was when something strange happened. Russia, who was sitting across from me, gave me - _me_, as in he looked directly at me - this funny look, and then bent down sideways, like he'd dropped his pencil and was fumbling for it. Maybe half a minute later he retrieved the pencil.

Nothing wrong with dropping your pencil. So what was with the look?

Some time later, about an hour or two, he did it again. When not sulking like a brat, I had been preoccupied with trying to follow the discourse between China and England (and I won't deny having taken a quick nap as well - Italy always made that look like such a good idea) when I got the curious skin-prickling tense feeling of being watched closely.

That doesn't happen too often to me. When it does, it usually makes me fade away and the other party stops watching pretty quickly. This was the first time I'd recalled it in - oh, easily a decade. But whenever someone's doing some creepy staring, there was generally just the one culprit, and he was seated right across from me. Not hard to put together.

Russia's glance immediately dropped to his lap when our eyes met. Then he looked at the ground beside the chair, where he had bent down to collect his pencil earlier.

He'd probably dropped it again, and it had rolled underneath the table, and his legs, though long, weren't long enough to fish it back out his end. He must want me to play fetch, I thought, this must be some kind of stupid game to pass the time.

I was tempted to say something about it. I mean, I'm not a dog who does tricks! But on the other hand, it didn't look like Russia had anything else to write with.

So game or not, I gave him a heavy, suffering sigh, and bent down myself. The pencil was next to my foot. I still don't know how the hell it got over there without him kicking it.

The second I grabbed it, his left foot kicked out in a sharp jab. He didn't hit me but I reacted quickly and backed up. Whacked my head on the under-side of the table. It hurt like hell, and was one of the reasons I avoided Cuba for like a week afterwards.

Under Russia's left boot there was a small white envelope, wedged in the seam between the sole and the leather upper. Almost like he'd seen that I had seen it, he nudged his foot in my direction.

I thought, what the hell does he think he's doing? What part of Western bloc member doesn't he get?

But... I'll admit, I was curious. So I grabbed it, too, and pushed it up inside the sleeve of my blazer.

That was when I noticed something else. Russia had been using a pencil. The pencil I held in my hand was half gone, and the eraser was a black stump - completely useless. The rest of us used fountain pens.

And his boot had this giant hole on the bottom, where it looked like the sole had been run down, and I could see the roughened, dirty skin of his toes. He wasn't wearing socks. He looked like he hadn't worn socks for ages. Did nobody take care of him? Didn't he take care of himself?

I straightened to sit back up (carefully this time). Nobody seemed to have seen me - that wasn't surprising - though some were looking funny at Russia. Austria was giving him a weird look, but he shrugged it off - I remember clearly his massive shoulders rolling inside that ridiculous thick coat. He looked like one of America's beloved football players, and it was July. How was he not overheating? "Noise was Canada," Russia explained, and held his hand out for the pencil.

And he gave me an eerie smile. I remember that clearly too. He smiled with his lips, not his eyes. It was his eyes that creeped me out more than anything else. The sclera was pinkish and the skin underneath them was puffier and darker than usual. He was either really exhausted or really hungry. Or both.

Suddenly the letter I carried in my inside sleeve felt a little more like an accusation. Though I'd done nothing wrong, except complain like a spoilt child about having to work, I felt guilty. And why? Because I had a decent night's sleep and a full breakfast that morning. Had Russia?

He noticed me staring at him and instantly became a lot more hostile. Let it be said, hostility for Russia isn't just some creepy smile. It's the creepy smile, plus him boring into your eyes with a belligerent intensity that shocks you. Plus a look like it would give him _pleasure smile_ to _render your flesh from its bone_. Plus an eerie chill in the air that you didn't notice before, or wasn't there before. It pulls the breath from my lungs and roots me where I'm standing ...You know what, it's really difficult to describe it to the point that you actually get what I'm driving at. Suffice it to say, Angry Russia is usually sufficient to give any of us - despite being nations - the deer-in-headlights syndrome. I hate it, because it takes all my effort not to vanish instantly.

"Spasiba," he said, and for something that was supposed to be _thank you_ it was hissed a little too strong and he curled his lips nastily. He held out a hand, prompting me to give him the pencil. Awkwardly, I handed it over. Austria tutted derisively and muttered something about classic Russian manners.

Clearly, I was just being silly. And this was getting ridiculous - Russia could take care of himself. And if he couldn't, he knew what to do - reach out for foreign aid. Like any other country. Go through the proper protocols! I wouldn't send my peacekeepers anywhere unless he asked for them.

That was one thing Russia had been negligent on then, asking for help. Between him and America, I think they were mining 95% of the world's pride.

.:.

By the time I got home, it was well over 3 AM my time. Naturally. The fireworks had been over for awhile.

I had tried to open the letter during the meeting but only managed to rip a bit of the envelope before Russia's entire demeanour had turned murderous. He didn't even have to look at me to get that point across, so okay, I thought, okay, later. Later it will be.

It was the first thing I did once I did get home, though, was crack open a beer, sit down at the table and figure out what the hell Russia was up to.

It was ...

A card.

On the front was a picture of a strange little cartooney monkey with gigantic ears, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, and inside was some messy writing that I couldn't decipher. I slowly realised half of it wasn't even in English, but thankfully the other half was the English translation. I didn't know English cursive and Russian cursive were similar enough to be mistaken for each other. (But maybe Russia just had really crappy handwriting.)

It appeared to say, _Pity that one's birthday happens only once a year. Congratulations and fond regards today_, and then an even messier scrawl that I couldn't make out even if I were fluent in Russian. I figured it must have been his signature, because beneath it was, a bit more clearly, _Poccuuckar COCP - Russia SFSR_.

Well.

It took me the rest of my beer to get rid of the sharp ache I felt in my chest, and a lot of willpower not to cry. America forgets, France forgets, England forgets. All of my other friends forget. And I don't mind. The one time someone remembers my birthday, it's crazy Russia. Amazing.

.:.

I was tempted to throw it out, I won't lie.

I hadn't planned on getting that drunk - I'd gotten home so late - but the card did it. Besides, I didn't have anywhere to be until America's big birthday bash which wasn't for another day, and as for the card, I just didn't know how to feel about it. I think I might have been happier if everyone had forgotten. That, I'm used to.

So, anyway, three beers later (and not the easy stuff, I dug into the stronger ones you can get in the grocery stores across the river with the _chasse-galerie_ on the label), I was fairly well tanked.

I don't quite remember what happened after that, but I woke up on the couch feeling like someone dug out my tongue and replaced it with cloth. And there was something poking me in the ribs.

"Food," said the bear.

"Ngh," was my only reply, but to be fair, I had done this to myself, and it was my own fault. I didn't give the bear much food before I took off to China the day before, and I didn't remember feeding him when I got home. So I pulled myself up, dragged myself into the kitchen, tossed him a fish or nine and started the coffee.

On my way to the washroom something caught my eye.

I must have ripped the card while inebriated, because it was in a few large pieces on the kitchen table. So was the envelope, which I apparently did a real number on. I was ... not too sure how I felt about that, either.

But looking closer, I found little gray squiggles and marks on one of the envelope pieces. Those hadn't been there yesterday! Wouldn't I have noticed something like that?

There was more of them too, and shockingly - the revelation jolted me way more than caffeine would have - they looked like letters. English letters.

I made quick work of the washroom before coming back to figure this one out. It took some time to reconstruct my damage but the marks - pencil, because at some point my skin oil managed to smudge a couple - were all concentrated on the seams of the envelope, where the flaps joined and overlapped to create a paper pocket for a letter. Or in my case, a birthday card. Hm. Well that explained why I didn't see them before.

Once I got more coffee in me, I needed about an hour to figure out what goes where (maple, I remember thinking, really gotta lay off the Maudite, it doesn't make for easy mornings after... or afternoons after), and I did not like the sound of the message as it came up, but I tried not to let my anxieties solve the puzzle for me. I was grateful, despite the heat of mid-day July, for the comforting weight and texture of Kuma-whatsit's fur as he snoozed on my bare feet. It felt like grounding, when meanwhile, my heart was racing so hard it was liable to fly out of my ribcage.

Despite not making much sense, the final message was bone-chilling. Hell, maybe _because_ it didn't make any sense.

_Only you can help me. I am a sick man, I live in a ward in a psychiatric hospital where I am tormented. I have lost my drink in its strange, curvaceous glass. This is my predicament. Matvei, deliver the message from the son to the devil._

Yeah, Russia, you're a sick man, alright. What the hell did this mean? A drink in a strange curvaceous glass? Were we talking wine and stem, curvy? Russia spent time with France, there was no way he didn't know the word for 'wine glass', why couldn't he have just said wine glass? Unless it was cognac, but same argument applied!

And the psychiatric hospital, where he is tormented. Because _that's_ not creepy. Was Russia being tortured? (Could you even do that to a country?)

The worst part was - and for me is still - the first and last bit. _Only you can help me._ Well! No pressure or anything! And, _Matvei, deliver the message from the son to the devil_.

From the son to the devil ... that kind of talk sounded religious. Which meant mostly-secular Canada needed to call someone a little more knowledgeable.

.:.

"Ve?"

"Uh, hi, Italy? It's Canada -"

"Hello? Is there anybody on the line? Pronto?"

"Yes, um, it's Canada -"

"Prank calls are mean, you shouldn't do them!"

It took a lot of effort for me to practically scream into the receiver, "N-no, Italy. It's, it's Canada. Ca. Na. Da. _Canada!_"

"Oh, yes! Martin, right? Hi! Why don't you speak up some? I can barely hear you."

"Heh, yeah... must be a bad connection, eh? Listen, I know you don't like talking about the Vatican - but I have a question in regards to, um, to those kinds of things... and I didn't have your brother's number, so..."

There was silence on the line, and for a moment I worried he hung up. "What is the question," Italy asked, a little sadly, like someone took his pasta away.

"So um, someone's given me this message, it says 'deliver the message from the son to the devil'. Does that mean anything to you?"

"What? You don't have a son."

"N-no, uh, I mean more, in a religious way. I think."

"Depending on who you ask that would be Jesus! Actually, wait. No, that's pretty much Jesus. I think anybody would agree that 'son' refers to Jesus. Now, whether they believe the son is on par with the father, different question, but you know that is _not_ something I really want to get into."

"Okay, so Jesus." I could've figured this all out myself. "And, and the devil part?"

Again, there was silence on the line. "That ... would be the devil? Obviously? You ask some silly questions! Listen, is that all you had to ask, because I'm kind of in the middle of something right now ..."

Probably food. I had faith in Veneziano's ability to talk on the phone and put dough through a roller at the same time. However difficult he'd always found it to do two things at once, if one of those things was food-related it would not be an issue. Besides, he probably had me on speakerphone since I'm just that damn quiet.

"But then, what is meant by giving a message from Jesus to the devil? Is there anything in the bible about that?"

"Well, that depends on which bible! ... Actually, wait, no. That doesn't really happen in the book. I mean, the only time there's really a message from Jesus to the devil would be during the temptation. Maybe? Would that count?"

I had no clue whether that was what Russia meant. Maybe I had just better look it up for myself. "Okay, where does that happen?"

"Hm... You can try one of the gospels. Try Matthew. Hey, that's your name! Or was it Mark? Because there is a Mark gospel too..."

Italy continued blathering on, and as I waited for an appropriate silent moment to let him go, I cursed myself for my own stupidity. Of course - Matthew. Why did that not surprise me. He even _wrote the name down_. How Russia knew my first name was beyond me, but - Matvei to deliver the message. I'm an _idiot_.

But believe it or not, that was where that trail ended. The gospel of Matthew yielded absolutely no clues. Ditto for Mark. It was just more tales about Jesus and stuff he did. And the other two gospels that mentioned the dealings between Jesus and Satan were equally vague. Useless, dead end.

And that's when I figured - mostly-secular Canada had to ask help from a country that was more religious, but who wrote the letter? A country that at one point made religion illegal. Why would godless Russia make a bible reference?

No wonder it was a dead end.

.:.

So I tried something else. Who else knew Russia? Pretty well everybody who lived with him under the Soviet Union would, but on the other hand, I couldn't make contact with those guys. You have to remember the era, it was pretty closed off. The best I could do then was to make contact with someone who could make contact with one of those guys, and we had a NATO meeting in early July in Berlin, so the timing was perfect.

"Uh, hey, Germany?"

Germany - more specifically, West Germany - didn't move from his stance on the bench in the park outside the hotel. (His dogs didn't even look up! Was I really so unremarkable that I didn't even leave a scent?)

I cleared my throat a little and said it again, as loud as I could. Which was not very loud.

One of the dog's ears perked up, which drew Germany's attention. Finally he spotted me. "Ah, America. What do you want?"

"It's, um, Canada actually -"

"Well, what do you want?"

"Um," I began awkwardly, trying not to fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. "I, uh, I really hope this isn't a bad question -"

"Just spit it out!"

"I, um, kind of, wanted to know if you have been able to, um, talk to your brother recently."

Germany's face changed only imperceptibly. I wasn't sure whether he was shocked or offended at the question. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well," I began. I explained the entire situation and Germany - for once - didn't interrupt me. Guess it must've been shock.

"S-so anyway, I thought it would be useful if I could talk to someone who, you know, knows Russia a little bit better."

Germany thought quietly for a moment. Finally he remarked, "I am almost certain that it is dangerous to be spreading this information around. How many people have you told that Russia has contacted you so directly?"

Now, I really should jump in here. Remember the era? Yeah, so did I. So it was real dumb on my part not to have thought of this one first. But at the time it just didn't occur to me, like the bible reference that obviously wasn't a bible reference, and I remember thinking instead, wait, what? And then I began thinking oh, shit, oh_shit_ - "Oh gosh, um, nobody. You're the first. I mean, I asked Italy -"

"You _WHAT? Dummkopf_, Italy's the biggest gossip after France!"

"No, no! Oh no. I didn't explain him the, um, the whole thing, I just, I just asked him a related question! About the son and devil portion. As- as far as he knows, this is nothing but a mild interest in Catholicism on my part."

Germany's eyes narrowed and he scrutinised me a moment (I tried very hard not to, but it made my skin crawl and I went half-transparent), but either he believed I was telling the truth or he was otherwise satisfied. "I have no direct contact with my brother," he admitted, "but what I can do is approve for you a letter to be sent to him. He will then have to make contact with you. How he will go about doing that will be difficult - I suggest you therefore make the request that he deliver the response to me which I can deliver to you."

"Wow. Um, gosh. Guess that wall's pretty thick, eh?"

"It is," Germany muttered tightly. "I would also advise offering some sort of reward. If I know my brother, he is not likely to do anything without incentive. If that is all, good-day."

Dis-_missed_.

.:.

The final copy went like this (I keep carbon copies of all my outgoing communications, which explains the mountain of filing I have to do all the time):

_Dear GDR,_

_The nation of Canada kindly requests your services in decryption of what may be an encoded message. I was recently sent a message from an anonymous source that includes the following:_

_1. Only I can help_  
_2. A sick man who lives in a ward in a psychiatric hospital, being tormented_  
_3. An alcoholic drinking glass that is strange and curvaceous_  
_4. Someone named Matvei is to deliver some message from Jesus to Satan._

_I have a feeling the homeowner of your current residence might know something about these matters. Would you please intervene on my behalf and obtain as much clarification as is possible on these matters?_

_In return, I have sent to your brother (as I am not permitted to send these official forms over the Wall) paperwork detailing trade for any one of my natural resources. You may pick whichever you like - lumber, freshwater, fish, minerals or metals (your pick of element - I notice the Soviet Union is concentrating some effort on building nuclear reactors; we have operative uranium mines in the north), maple syrup if you really want. East Germany would become the prime trading partner for the resource in question at extremely attractive prices._

_My thanks for your help in this endeavour. Sincerely yours,_

_Canada_

.:.

Three months later Germany shoved a letter-sized paper folded neatly in thirds in my direction at the next meeting. "My apologies," he said, so I had low expectations even then.

Here's the copy of what Prussia sent.

_Canada,_

_Yeah so I tried, but I have no freaking clue what the hell Russia is ever talking about. __Nobody__ does. He's a nutbag. He just looked at me and said something about taking his tea with limes today. Normally he takes it with lemons, and to be honest I don't know where he's gonna get the lime from, it's not like Russia grows these things and imports have been slim to nil, for reasons that are painfully obvious. He also asked whether I have seen the big black hippo cat, because it stole all the vodka. __What._

_Keep in __freaking mind__: he was stone-cold sober when he told me this. Frankly I think Russia is __more__ normal when he's inebriated. I waited 'til he found the vodka and tried asking him again but he just got quiet and said he wanted to be left alone to read. Also did not take his tea with a lime. So, I'm as much what the hell as you right now._

_Sorry I can't help you any more than that. Frankly, I have bigger fish to fry at the moment. Also too busy being awesome. But it's mostly the fish._

_Awesomely,_

_Me_

_(PS, I've decided I want your maple syrup. But it'll have to wait until trade can flow a little more smoothly between us. In the meantime, don't let my brother have any. That stuff is mine.)_

Prussia. Because colloquialisms aren't just for common speech anymore, apparently.

And yes, he really did go with the maple syrup. I'm constantly sitting on a goodly amount of the world's freshwater supply and he wants maple fucking syrup. Because Prussia, that's why.

.:.

At this point, I only had one card left, and while it was a trump suit, it was a pretty risky one to play.

"Canada! Chéri! You haven't been to see me in awhile. And just in time for my Bastille Day celebrations!"

"Hahahaha..." I murmured awkwardly into France's chest. His standard greeting for me - both then and now - is to clutch me and pin me there like he hasn't seen me in forever. I always try to squeeze out but he's like a finger trap; the more I struggle the harder he holds me (the less I can freakin' _breathe_).

So instead I gave up and went limp and eventually, he let me go. "I was wondering," I said, but he interrupted me.

"Come! Let us walk and talk. I have much to prepare for my party. Besides, the day is nearly three pm and if I know you as I - _ahem!_ - know you -" he winked salaciously, and it's just impossible to force oneself not to blush so I went bright red - "you have not had anything to drink today! It is a crime most _affreux_."

I was lucky I was good with wine, because half a glass didn't affect me nearly as much as it once did. That, and I'd been smart enough to have something starchy before I came to Paris, so I was well-equipped with a full stomach. France isn't the only one who _knows_ people.

Once we'd gotten settled, I sprang my own trap. "Can you tell me about Russia?" I asked him.

France gave me a look I've only ever seen perhaps once before on his face. It was somewhere between knowing, pensive, and tart. "I think you mean _l'Union Soviétique_," he supplied helpfully, his voice a little lower.

"The... part that is Russia," I clarified. "You knew him when he was younger. What was he like?"

France didn't reply for a minute and just sat there sipping his wine. "_Capricieux_," he said finally. "Temperamental, at times. Mostly he kept to himself. It was difficult to get him to come to parties, but once he got used to it he adapted readily. He was a wonderful dancer," France finished, swirling the wine almost wistfully. "That will not surprise you, I do not think, given the renown of the _Ballets Russes_. And he has a certain taste for art that is at once conventional and completely incomprehensible. Why do you want to know?"

"That was before you got in fights with him," I offered, trying to get France to talk more and ask me questions less.

"You've been speaking with Prussia," France murmured darkly, not meeting my gaze. "I don't know whether I should tell you any more. After all you have not even told me for what reason it is that you want this information. _Quelque chose pour quelque chose, n'est-ce pas?_"

And this was why I didn't want to play the France card. Like Germany said - the biggest gossip. And as he said, it would be something for something.

"I'm ... curious," I said instead, hoping it would give France the wrong idea entirely.

He raised a fine, styled blonde arch. "Curious, as in ..." I couldn't hide the blush his insinuating tone provoked, and didn't force myself to try, either. In this case, it was good, because it helped foster the conclusion I wanted France to jump to.

"Oh, non non _non_," France said, very quickly, patting my hand like I was twelve. "That would be a grave mistake."

"I-I'm old enough to make my own mistakes!" I protested.

"Then you are old enough to do your own _research_," he snapped archly, "I will not be an accomplice in this. Not with things being between _la Russie_ and your brother as they are. No, I do not think so."

"Please," I said. "Just tell me a little about his personality, enough to get me to talk to him. Likes, dislikes?"

"Russia has changed much since the days I knew him."

"Anything," I insisted.

Francis finally relented. "He is a wonderful dancer, yes, but he prefers quiet activities. Solitary meditation. He enjoys music. He reads a lot. He has a sense of humour that after three hundred years, I still don't entirely understand. He ruins perfectly decent tea by overbrewing it and adding lemon, so I imagine his tastes are less sweet and _plutôt amer_. Extrapolate that as you will. And that, _mon beau_, is all I have to say about that."

France swept out of the foyer and only turned back at the end of the hall. After all these years I've come to realise what that means - the more dramatic his gesture, the more his coat swooshes, the more hurt he is. "If you're not coming to help me out with Bastille Day preparations, you can show yourself out."

Harsh, France. It never really helps to have him angry with me. Especially not for something like this, where I wasn't even sure why he was so angry. And I didn't want to have to play the suck-up game later (because I knew it would involve my least-favourite France game, the 'guess why I am angry' game).

So obediently I followed and made no further mention of the beast to the east.

.:.

"Okay, we have the following. Some sort of cryptic reference to the bible. Maybe not. Can't really make any sense of that. Followed by some sort of cryptic reference to limes and cats and vodka. And last but not least, this is a quiet, sensitive, artistic man with a deranged sense of humour." I slouched back in the chesterfield. How did I know this wasn't all some stupid joke, anyway?

I remember thinking, I bet that's it. Just a dumb joke. "Well now I feel pathetic," I told Kuma-something.

"Who?" he asked.

"Oh, Canada. You know, your owner."

"Letter?"

"No, the letter was from Russia." Who had a real dick sense of humour.

"Oh," Kuma-whatever said.

"Yeah," I agreed dejectedly, "'oh' pretty much sums it up."

.:.

And so I put the card and the envelope - in the envelope's case, painstakingly taped up - away in a shoebox, which migrated around my house for a bit until it finally wound up in my closet. Equally I mostly forgot about Russia - technically the Soviet Union - whose eyes somehow seemed darker and deeper than I'd ever imagined with every meeting I attended, until finally, the Soviet Union whittled away to nothing. I, with my brother, and increasingly the rest of them, formally recognised the Baltics, Georgia, Ukraine, Belarus, all the -istans in the Caucasus.

Then, at long last, Russia took his former name, gained a little more weight, looked a little less haunted, and I forgot all about the envelope's message.

Until now.

.:.

(Thank you for reading! :D)


	2. chapter 1

1. _(late August, some year in the present-future)_

.:.

I can count on one hand the number of times I've interacted with Russia. For the most part, it's at boss-level, so I never have to do much. I'm grateful for that, because frankly, Russia's intimidating and a little unstable. And I think he's got some kind of sensor or something that can tell when his intimidation strategies are working. I don't count the emails, because those are only ever cc'd to me, and a bunch of other people. Nothing to indicate that he actually sees me as a distinct separate entity.

That's why I initially don't think anything of the letter when I get it in the mail.

In fact, I'm running so late for a meeting with my boss (who is _not_ my favourite, he schedules things like a certain land of the brave and home of the calendar-challenged does - to suit himself and screw what anyone else thinks) that I don't even get a chance to look through the mail until much later when I return home.

Three flyers, junk mail, another flyer, more junk mail, an envelope from CRA, ooh new IKEA catalogue, Environment Canada complaining about Alberta again (this I file under 'to forward to my boss', which he will probably in turn file under 'to ignore permanently'), and the last one is a simple white envelope with my address, the return address coming from Moscow.

I don't think anything of it at all until I realise, wait, Moscow?

Nobody sends letters anymore. The last time I got a message from Russia, it was addressed to a pile of other people as well, and it was an email. I know he has email contact, so why would he bother spending the time and money on stamps?

Stranger still, the letter isn't in English, but in French. I'm glad he didn't pick Russian because despite the spelling errors which really are minor, his French is way better than my Russian. But why French?

_Dear Canada_, it says,

_I have been looking into the finances surrounding certain natural resources under request from my supervisors. As you know I have both a prime minister and president. The president is elected while the prime minister is appointed. The balance of power is also affected; it is like the president is my body, but the prime minister is the face. It may be somewhat of an informal title, as the prime minister cannot make me do anything without the president's interference. For the most part the prime minister is an administrative role. In addition to serving on several councils the title also allows some signatory roles ..._

Etc, etc. Russia trails off for awhile here explaining what exactly happens with who does what. This is interesting enough but I could look this up in a book, so I'm really not sure why he's telling me.

_Furthermore, you may be aware of the union between I and Belarus; relations have been rocky as my prime minister is dissatisfied with the status of this union. At the moment the union is like the difference between a betrothal and an engagement. I believe my own feelings upon this subject are well-known but that is neither here nor there. Trade relations involve mostly my resources such as natural gas; however, ..._

And he trails off again about stuff I already know, stuff like how Belarus is kind of a drain on him (well of course, she's your little sister. If she were your equal, the nature of the relationship fundamentally changes and you two would be married) and that the two of them have been on the outs recently (it's hard to avoid overhearing the rows; Belarus is a freakin' banshee and France keeps us all updated). What the hell is the point of all of this?

I skip through two more pages to the end.

_In conclusion, the prime minister has granted my personal request to offer you a competitive price for the maple syrup you are currently providing to certain parts of Germany, if you would be so kind as to send me the forms._

_Best regards,_

_Poccur - Russia._

Wait.

Really? _Really?_

All of that nonsense just to say please do some investing with us, I have a hankering for pancakes and Prussia's getting too much sugar for someone who doesn't exist as a nation anymore?

This is _ridiculous_. I understand Russia's got a stupid sense of humour but come on, now.

"Problem?" asks the bear.

"_Yes_, problem," I splutter, "Russia thinks he's being really funny! What the - what the hell is this even!?"

"A letter," the bear says.

"I _know_ it's a letter."

"Don't get mad."

"I'm not - _argh!_" Because yes, I _am_ mad. Russia's toying with me like a cat with a mouse and I have _no fucking idea why_. Did I do something to him? Is this even personal, is it even about me? Does he just want to piss off America some more? Isn't he usually more direct with this kind of thing anyway? He knows I crumple like paper when he turns on the creepy act. Why resort to mind-games?

So I do what I do best when confronted with these things.

Two bottles of Fin du Monde later I've got England on the line. Why England? Well, I sat on my phone and it dialled him by accident and he actually picked up. England a) can barely hear me - though I'm a little louder with beer - and b) is five hours ahead, which means it's like past midnight there. Whatever, he's probably up all night communing with spirits or something. At least this time I've managed to convince him I'm not America.

"Huh," says England, after I've read him the translated contents of the letter once through.

"I know, eh?"

"In French?"

"All of it. In French. I, I didn't even know he _spoke_ French!"

"Everybody speaks French after spending time with France," England grumbles.

"America doesn't."

"He's a special case. Anyway, I agree. I can't think of any reason Russia would send you this, and then end it with a plea for - for liquid sugar? That doesn't make any sense."

"That's what I thought. That's why I phoned you up." That and accidental dialling.

"Yes, about that. It is two in the morning, and I've a plane to catch tomorrow at nine, I'm meeting America for a day. So I'll have to let you go in a bit."

"Fine, fine. I'm just glad you agree that there's no initial motivation - like me pissing him off - which, which I _haven't_ done! - as to why Russia's sent me a message like this in French! I mean, it's so obviously not his native language it's almost foolish - droning on and on about stuff that, as, as you say, you could find in a book if you were interested - which _I am not!_ - and when he finally gets to the point it's ultimately about something completely unrelated? No, it's got to be some stupid joke."

"It's not completely unrelated, he did make mention of his trades, but - wait, hang on. What do you mean, not his native language?"

"That'd be Russian, eh?"

"Yes, of course, but - he's spoken French for over three hundred years."

"Yeah, well _you've_ spoken it since the Norman invasion and your French is appalling."

Beer is not good for my verbal politeness filter.

England doesn't seem to care. "To be fair, that's a little bit on purpose, on account of our history. Russia on the other hand ... he's fairly well fluent. I've heard him speak. He even has the accent down. I think he rather liked France."

"Okay, then he's a shitty writer. I mean, uh, it's got mistakes all over the page."

Silence on the line. "Alright, now _that's_ fishy," England remarks.

"Seriously? Y-you're saying that sending me a long-winded letter with a, a mostly unrelated conclusion that so far is completely unwarranted is fine, but the moment it's got a spelling mistake or two, something's off?"

"Is it just one or two?"

"Um -" I look down at the page. "No, there's - actually there's a lot of 'em."

"Think carefully, has Russia ever sent you any correspondence with a single spelling mistake in it?"

"I think you need to first ask me whether Russia has sent me any correspondence, period."

"Alright, then I'll field this one. The answer is no. Not a single one. I thought once that perhaps his English was affected to piss your brother off, but I think it's genuinely accented and he has editors aplenty. But that would mean he's always had someone watching him over his shoulder, waiting for him to screw up. It's not rightly fair. I know I've had my own part to play in that charade but I feel sympathy nonetheless. Anyway nobody else does this. Everyone else just leaves the errors in - Poland's always got something in his, and Ukraine has typos aplenty. It's fine, nobody minds, I wouldn't accuse them of butchering English. You can still understand the message. But everything Russia sends out has gone through five revisions by three different people and sounds over formal."

"That sounds dangerously Cold War."

"Only he's been like that forever. Long as I've known him. Anyway, tell you what, I'll pop by in the morning before I head on out to Washington, if only because now I've got to see this. Be there by perhaps noon your time. Take care."

"G'night," I answer, and end the call, studying the three page letter a little more carefully now.

No spelling mistakes, eh?

I double-check my email inbox just to be sure while nursing my third beer. There's even an exchange between France and Russia, cc'd the rest of the G8 that is actually partly in French (to which America had replied, 'I'm not replying to this unless you speak American', to which France replied, 'But you are replying to it right now', and that started off a whole long chain of stupidity - I wonder if our bosses realise how much time we waste doing this kind of thing).

As England said, Russia's written French - like his written English - is impeccable.

"This doesn't make any sense," I murmur idly, and the bear, climbing up on my lap, hears me.

"Envelope?" he guesses.

And that's when I remember the Soviet birthday card from a few decades ago.

.:.

Unfortunately, there's nothing when I rip the envelope apart this time. "Any more ideas?" I ask Kuma-thing.

"Poison," he says simply.

"_What?_" I scoot away from the table in horror so quick my chair squeals on the floor. Oh god, it's not the old anthrax in the envelope trick, is it? Geez Russia, what the hell did I _do_ to you?

"Poison." Then the bear climbs off my lap and crawls to the kitchen, looking up balefully at the fridge. I open it, curious, and he noses at the crisper, where I keep the fish.

Oh for the love of. "You're hungry and you want food. Why didn't you just say fish?"

When it suddenly dawns on me. Poison. Poisson.

And why didn't Russia just write what he intended to say in the birthday card instead of on the inside seams of the card's envelope?

I stand there, shell-shocked, for so long that Kuma-jerk manages to eat three-quarters of the fish that was in the crisper, which was supposed to last him through to Thursday.

.:.

_Cher Canada_, the letter begins,

_Je suis em train de faire du recherche à propos de ..._

He must mean "en train". It looks like nothing more than a typo.

_... sous le directif de mes amployeurs. Comme vous savez, j'ai deux shefs, un premier ministre et un president ..._

Which should be 'employeurs' and 'chefs'. It continues on and on. I underline the mistakes, which range from simple typos, to a missing 'e' - common errors in gender - to what would ordinarily be honest mistakes were it not for the fact that apparently Russia speaks French nearly as well as he speaks Russian.

Unfortunately the letters that spells out makes no sense. Firstly, it's not obvious whether the letters I'm looking for are the mistakes or the original letter that should be in there. For example, with "em train", does the message begin with an 'n' - the missing letter - or is it 'm', the mistake letter?

I come up with two keys, one that uses the mistake letters, and one that uses the correct letters. Neither set makes any sense on their own, but it's not too difficult to parse what letters go where based on what the message should be in terms of actual French words. The answer I get winds up being a mix of the two.

But the message not only is riddled with errors, it also makes no sense semantically. It reads, "_ma chese lour peze um euf et moite, moin que otre beut_". My heavy chair weighs an egg and a half, less than - I think that's votre, and peut - less than yours can?

Chair... chair. Busby's chair?

No, the weight of Busby's chair was not measured in eggs.

Then again, supposing we play this game a second time...

"Ai" from chaise, heavy requires a d and an e, peze should be pese, the s is missing. Un oeuf et moitie - that's an n, o, and an i - unless it should be an m -

Oh gosh. Oh, _maple_.

It reads "_aidez-moi, svp_".

This... this is a cry for help.

My blood runs cold. I haven't felt this unnerved since my old boss started inviting me along to his seances way, way back when.

Like a bad dream, the words, _only you can help me_ return to the forefront of my mind. But what does this have to do with a curvy alcohol glass, a mental institution, and a message from Jesus to the devil?

Maple. How _long?_ How long has Russia been asking for help and I just didn't _get it?_

And this is when I remember something else, namely, Germany telling me that it is almost certainly dangerous to spread information about things like this - coded messages from Russia - around in dangerous times.

And England's coming over tomorrow morning.

The first time I call it goes straight to voicemail. Which doesn't make sense, I _know_ he's at home! So I try it again, trying not to panic when I get to the second, then the third ring. Shit, what if he's already left, shit shit shit_shit_ -

"Ungh, h'lo?"

"England! Englandit'sokayyoudon'thavetocomeovertomorrowwe're goodokaybutthankyouanyway!"

"Canada, you git, d'you realise it's bloody half past five in the morning."

"I - oh." Sure enough when I look at my own clock it turns out it's one am. Time flies when you're having fun. Or being scared shitless by coded messages begging you for help. "Gosh, I'm so, so sor- hey, you _remembered_ me!"

"America's conked out by midnight most nights. He also doesn't talk like a bullet train. Remember? 'Awesome hero voice'?"

"Ah, heh, right. Well anyway. Like I was saying, I don't think you have to come over tomorrow. I think I'll be okay."

"... Really?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I think this is all a, um, -" shit, think quick - "_giant_ misunderstanding ... of some sort. Anyway." That was not smooth. "Really, it's okay. I just remembered something Russia once sent me - something _really_ trivial! - it also made no sense. He just, he just has a sick sense of humour. I remember I asked France about it, he said Russia's real quirky -"

England interrupts my babbling with a heavy sigh and, "Fine, whatever you say. Can I get some sleep now?"

Fist-pump.

Despite throwing England off, I can't get to sleep until three am, and that was with another two beers, which normally would put me out like a light, but my mind is racing and my heart is pounding. Sleep, when it does arrive, is uneasy. I can't shake the feeling that there's something honestly wrong.

_Help me, please. Only you can help me._

.:.

I wake up way too early the next morning with a heavy, pounding head.

"Your own fault," Kuma reminds me. True enough.

Three hours later the doorbell rings. "That's strange," I tell Kuma-creature. "I'm not expecting anybody."

"England?" Kuma reminds me.

"No, I called him late last night, told him not to come. You were asleep then."

But sure enough, on the other side of the door is none other than he. "Right," says England, barging in, "let's get down to business."

"I thought I told you -"

"And I thought I told you I had to see this for myself!" he interrupts. "Honestly, child. What part of 'I'm SAS' don't you get. This smells fishier than a London rubbish bin at 3 am after a cheap pint night."

"Ah, England, look, really, it's not -"

But England just stands there with his hand open, expectantly, and gives me a no-nonsense look. He doesn't move until I guiltily hand over the letter. Fine, but if he doesn't find the message - the really scary one - I'm not finding it for him.

England looks at the first page of the letter, and then at the two other pages and gets a look on his face that denotes exhaustion, despite it being one in the afternoon. "Perhaps we ought to make a pot of tea," England suggests, which is really English for 'Canada, go make me some tea.'

"Um, Red Rose okay?" I ask, leading him into the kitchen, where England sits down at the table. I move to fill the kettle.

England sighs non-committally. "It'll do," he says, which I suspect is really English for 'you're getting decent tea for Christmas this year, since I never get you a birthday gift since I always forget it'. Not that I'm bitter.

While England's busy reading, I'm busy thinking. I can't let England know the message is for me to (somehow) help Russia. For some reason that I can't yet figure out, Russia seems to want this kept quiet. If he hadn't, he would have been more overt about it instead of resorting to all this secrecy. He could have just talked to me in person. But he didn't.

Unfortunately, for all of England's blustering, he is genuinely good at this kind of thing. If I give him enough time to think about the message, he'll figure it out, and then he'll freak out. So I need to distract him.

Possibly, very possibly, England might be able to help me with the birthday card's envelope. (And if that one has a scary or creepy message like this one, it is forty years old, so I'm not as concerned.)

"I'll be right back," I tell him, and dash off to get it upstairs before he can reply. Hell, he might not have even heard me.

By the time the water has boiled I've returned with the taped up envelope and am setting the milk jug and sugar out on the table. England has finished reading the long piece of code Russia has sent and is sitting quietly, thinking. "So, uh, can you guess what the message is yet?" I tease.

"Not yet, but give us a moment. Why, did you figure it out?"

I show him the answer that talks about how heavy his chair is. England scoffs. "You weren't kidding about his sense of humour," he remarks. "But isn't this misspelled too? Is it another code?"

"Um," I say, thinking quickly. Crap, England must just pretend to have very poor French to piss off France. "No! No it's, it's not. It's - it's a _dialect_." Matthew, you genius.

"French has dialects?"

"Sure!" and I hope the crack in my voice isn't too obvious. "You know, Breton."

England gives me a strange look. "What the hell is Breton?"

"The language ... of Brittany?"

England only knows enough about Brittany to know it's a source of pain in France's rear, but that's good enough for me. "Alright," he says slowly, and then - he's still thinking about it, dammit I need to get him started on this stupid envelope! - "How is it _you_ know this language? If it's just a joke surely Russia knows you're fluent in it. But I've never heard you speak it."

"Well," I cough, stalling a bit, "you know. You know Cape Breton Island, right? They, uh, speak it there." They don't, but I'm willing to bet a year's worth of Timbits that England does not know that. "It's, um, a Celtic language? Sort of like Cornish, or, or Welsh?"

England grimaces at the vague mention of his older brother. They must be on the outs. "Ugh," he says, "say no more." Oh thank maple, _finally_.

"So! Anyway, while you're here, there's something else," I say, and quickly slide the birthday card and envelope across the table. "He sent me that a long time ago, one Canada Day." Arthur takes a long look at it and reads the message while I pour his tea. "Milk?"

"Yes please. I - oh, gross, that's right," he says as he looks up, "you don't use the pitchers that close. Well, I guess it's fine. Don't know how your milk doesn't smell like fridge."

I narrow my eyes. "How terrible does your fridge smell, anyway?"

"Oh, you know, leftovers."

I shouldn't say it, I shouldn't say it ... but exhaustion and stress, like beer, do terrible things to my politeness filter. "If you made tastier food, maybe you wouldn't have to have leftovers all the time."

"Right, that's it. You want to do this yourself, you can."

"No! No no, I'm - look, I'm sorry, it's just been a really weird day, as you can tell. You're now the fourth person I've gotten to help me on this and the previous three had no real leads."

England is immediately suspicious. "Who were the previous three?"

"Uh, Italy, Prussia and France."

This grabs his attention. Nothing placates England more than knowing he's succeeded where someone - particularly France - has failed.

"Well," he says stiffly, trying not to look too puffed up, "because you're family, and all," and takes up the envelope again. "And did those wankers have anything to say about this?"

So I explained to him what Italy had had to say (not much), what Prussia thought of it (I neglected to mention Germany's warning), and what France had told me about Russia himself (nothing conclusive).

England thinks a moment more and then snaps his fingers. "Think I've got it."

"What - _really?_" I should probably try to sound a little less interested; England will think something's up. "Uh, I mean, I've had this card for so long."

"Yes, there's a book I read once. Had all these elements in it. Funny title, something something Margarita. Russian author, if I recall. Nabokov, I think." He sets the envelope down with a certain amount of decision. "But it fits. The text of the message is pretty well directly referencing the book's plot."

"What's it about?"

"You and America both! Why don't you just check it out from a library instead of treating me like I'm your walking book report? Suffice it to say I think the 'big reader' clue was a big hint, but it was the big black cat the size of a hippo that was the dead giveaway. And the limes and the curvy glass representing margarita, the drink, instead of the character, Marguerite. That was a spot of cleverness, that one," he thinks aloud, "I wouldn't've expected Russia to be aware of drinks besides vodka. Of course anyone from North America would likely have picked it up, but anybody from an Eastern bloc country would be right baffled. I don't give him enough credit." England looks my way. "What's the trouble? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh! I just, I-I can't believe I never caught that before now," I stammer. "I should go get a copy of the book. That's probably what he wanted. Strangest form of advertisement."

"That's the spirit! Listen, d'you mind if I crash upstairs for a spell before I pop out again to meet your brother? Someone's to blame for my three hours of sleep last night."

"You didn't have to come all the way over here," I protest.

England grins and taps the envelope. "But you're glad I did," he replies.

I can barely wait for him to get upstairs before I pull out my computer to find a copy of that book. What the hell had Russia been trying to convey, that he had to conceal it from other Russians like that?

Germany's voice echoes back in my memory, and more now than ever, I realise I've got to stop seeking outside help.

.:.

It was not Nabokov. It was Bulgakov. In the time it takes me to get back from driving England to the airport (in the middle of rush hour traffic), and the library, it's been three hours, which means England should be at America's in about five.

I call him up later to clarify, and all he says is, "Well, you know. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"This from the great reader! Next you'll be telling me you don't know who Margaret Atwood is and why she's different from Doris Lessing."

"She some kind of politician?"

I hang up.

.:.

I get through about half of the book. It's a story within a story, which is always perfectly confusing and frankly kind of creepy. The story involves weird shenanigans in Moscow - the character in the insane asylum is either some poet named Ivan, or the Master. I'm not sure which one's supposed to represent Russia, because the first hundred pages of the book have Ivan as the main character and then suddenly the author claims the real hero is introduced. The story within the story involves the Matvei character, though all he does is whine about how unfair it is that Jesus died. That's nothing I didn't find in the bible all those years ago.

Does Russia think he's Jesus? Does he want me to raise hell about his treatment?

I'm still lost.

_Aidez-moi, svp_ says the letter, but with what does he want my help? Besides getting me to read something that was banned in Russia during the time he sent me that birthday card, what does he intend to mean with the book?

I'm officially out of ideas. And half-tempted to just leave it alone, frankly. But then Kuma-thingy nudges the letter accidentally my way when he crawls over the table to sleep on the chair. And the letter _stares_ at me.

I guess ... as much as I don't want to talk to Russia, I guess I owe him this much. If he meant to send these messages - and he so far has, they're not only addressed to me but also refer to things like maple syrup and my birthday. I'm confused for Alfred a lot but there's no way he's not clear on who he's talking to - and if they mean what I think they mean... Even if they don't mean what I think they mean.

Screw it, this needs clarification.

.:.

Unfortunately, looking at my calendar a bit more closely, I don't see Russia again until the APEC summit next May, which strikes me as a bit strange. Surely we can meet a little more regularly than that? I know my boss' foreign minister is so often in Russia that she just got an apartment in Halifax to be nearer to the international airport there. Gets her into Moscow way quicker.

Which gives me an idea.

.:.

Which is how I wind up on a flight to Moscow sitting next to my Foreign Affairs Minister, Diane Martin, a just slightly overweight forty-something Lavalloise with dark hair, dark eyes, and at least one cat judging from her blazer. She's a pleasant enough person when you let her knit, and we left from Ottawa which means security's a little more understanding to a pair of double-pointed needles for socks.

Frankly, I don't understand all America's hype anyway, I mean the woman is clearly knitting socks with the needles, and those things couldn't puncture a balloon, let alone skin, but at his behest we've gotten all paranoid with our security too. (Hoser.)

It looks strange - between England diverting his flight plan at 2am to me hopping a plane at last minute to Moscow. And probably I should've told my boss (and he'll let me have it when I come back) but travel is a little cavalier to people like me to begin with. When the only people who really understand you at any level are in other countries, it's easy to take a long flight and to fly it frequently. Besides, what's hours spent on a plane when you're immortal?

I tend to sleep during travel, so most of my flight's unconscious, but my moments of clarity are partially spent thinking about what exactly I plan on doing. I have to corner Russia somehow, get him alone. Then he can explain just what the hell it is he meant by all of this code. What can I help him with?

The rest of the time, I'm reading that book. It gets somewhat interesting when the character Matvei comes in, but the story within a story aspect still concerns me, especially when the character appears in both stories. At what level should I be taking this? As Levi Matvei tells the devil to back the crap off - this is obviously the message delivery he was talking about - what does he want me to do? Who is Russia's devil? And will that entity grant Russia peace?

I manage to finish the novel but it just leaves me unsettled, and my dreams, when I have them, are uneasy... I'm flying above a grand ball and a bonfire, then suddenly I'm on the ground and there's a man off in the trees. Someone's screaming my name, someone else screams that they're invisible.

I wake with a start and can't get back to sleep, but with dreams like that I don't really want to, so Martin teaches me how to knit and I make her a square to pass the time. I'm glad when we finally land in Moscow.

.:.

Martin introduces me brusquely to the Russian foreign aide - a tall, well-dressed, but frosty man, perhaps in his late fifties - as Dmitri-Vasilievich-Morozov, and I remember briefly from some diplomatic informational brochure I read long ago that introductions in Russia are done first name, father's name, last name. It makes me wonder whether Russia's got a middle name as well. I know his sister took one for security's sake, despite not having a father.

Russia, speaking of, looks pissed. I thought Morozov was angry but holy hell. Russia takes one look at Martin and one look at me and, although nothing changes in his face, the air around him goes still and I can feel the waves of pure, hot ire coming off him like thermal radiation. Morozov, for his part, is upset but reasonably understanding. "You did not inform me of this," he tells Martin in clipped English.

"It's not uncommon for the representative to tag along," Martin says, shrugging. Morozov gives her a look, then glances at me (I'm trying to be the picture of innocence... and trying not to accidentally disappear on everybody), and shakes his head, resigned. Martin adds, "I could ask why yours has accompanied you when this also isn't usual."

Russia is polite but sharp. "I am always cognisant of what happens at my borders. When I recognised this one entering," he says, gesturing to me, "I was alerted. You may rest assured remainder will know soon enough, for I have taken the liberty of contacting them, as per constitution." He stresses liberty and constitution particularly scathingly, and that makes me wonder.

Morozov says something to Russia I can't understand, because my Russian is pretty awful. "It can't be helped," he says in English, for my benefit. Then he shakes my hand and tells me that if I should require anything during my stay in the capital to please inform him and to please call him Dima. Russia nearly pops a blood vessel in his eyes and proceeds to have a very silent apoplectic fit. _While smiling._

I'm so very dead and I feel my skin prickle as it slowly becomes transparent. I could really have called, I suppose, and given more warning. It'd've been nicer. But that would defeat the purpose, because then Russia would've shown up with an arsenal of bureaucrats and I'd never get him alone.

Steel yourself, Mattie, and keep calm, I think, shaking off the prickling. You're just as good as he is. Don't let him intimidate you.

"Well," Martin says, completely oblivious to the hell that is Russia right now (do humans just not see this?) "perhaps you can show him around or something. But for us, we'd better get down to business, eh, Dmitri? It's your son's birthday later today, right?" And Mor- Dima beams brightly and they go off and talk.

I am halfway to following them when I feel a heavy weight on my shoulder and a firm grip. "Not so fast, comrade," Russia says, and I can feel the growl in his voice. "We should talk, and then I can introduce you to my bosses."

"Have, um, we got a lot of time?" I ask him fearfully. At his raised eyebrow I explain, "To talk."

He shakes his head. "It will have to be next time," he replies, and his voice is getting quieter by the word. "I assume you got my letter."

"Yes," I whisper. "The ... transmission was successful."

"Good. Then I need not stress how important it is that - that we must correspond solely to one another. Even now I am not ... at liberty."

Liberty again. It's got to have something to do with all of this. "I understand," I reply, "I can wait until your speech is a little ... freer. Just let me know."

Russia smiles then, and his eyes are kind. It's a split second before his body language changes entirely. His muscles tense, he pales, the sparkle in his eyes fades dramatically, and his smile completely disappears - to be quickly replaced, like nothing's happened, though it's clear to me he's distressed and almost - nervous? Is this what Russia nervous looks like? It's twice as terrifying as Russia angry.

Finally, he says more loudly, his voice betraying nothing, "Ah! Excellent. May I present to you my supervisors ..."

Russia's bosses are Svetlana-Ilinichna-Petrova, and Vladislav-Yurievich-Borovsky - Petrova is the president, Borovsky the prime minister. Both are frightening and tall, with imposing figures, high cheekbones (almost aristocratic, dare I say it), severe features, and unimpressed, dour looks.

Neither of them are overly pleasant folk. Neither of them are smiling. And neither of them invite me to call them by their nicknames.

Russia grins pleasantly at me as he stands between them. It's a smile I recognise - the one that doesn't reach his eyes, the one that warns, _tread lightly, comrade_.

.:.

We spend lunch together at one of the more expensive French restaurants (I'm nervous when I see the ridiculous amount of rubles that salmon is supposed to cost - even accounting for the exchange rate - but Russia pats my hand with very quick taps, like my flesh is on fire, and tells me not to worry, because all downtown Moscow restaurants are like this - which really does not help my worries).

Then Russia takes me on a quick walking tour of the governmental section of Moscow. And then we have dinner at an Italian place down the road. When I inquire over scallop linguine about 'actual Russian food, you know, like borscht and stuff' Petrova sniffs, Borovsky's lip curls and Russia blushes bright red. It's much better if they think I'm a total dolt. Dolts get ignored, the clever get scrutinised.

Throughout the entire day, Petrova and Borovsky follow us around, not a metre behind us, while Russia and I make endless amounts of small talk about Definitely Nothing Important At All.

How the hell will I possibly get Russia alone at this rate? Even if I wait around for APEC next May, he only ever shows up at meetings seconds before they begin and leaves seconds after they end, with the bosses in tow. I know my boss is constantly hovering during my meetings, and though it's annoying, I think it's just because he doesn't understand fully what I _do_ and things he doesn't understand, he doesn't like. He's also nowhere near as creepy about it as these two, who seem to take their job titles as Overprotective Parents or something.

I don't see Russia at all the next day, and Martin implies over breakfast at the hotel that it's probably because he's busy with work. She tells me Dmitri told her that would be likely.

So I'm surprised when, just as Martin and I are getting into the cab to head to the airport, Russia stops me. Behind him are Petrova and Borovsky, looking very pissed - I don't know what about, but pissed.

"Listen," Russia says awkwardly, "before you leave." He gives me a quick hug. "Thank you for coming."

"Um," I say. "You're welcome?"

Russia releases me, beams, and drops something small and light into my hand. "For you, for luck," he explains. "You put it in your pocket."

It's a chestnut.

His bosses look murderous and he gives them a shrug. "What? I confess I am a bit superstitious."

"There is nothing to be superstitious about," Petrova insists.

Russia shrugs again. "Old ways die hard," he explains. "You know. And he has long trip to travel. Would be bad for bad things to happen to my good friend Canada."

"Since when, good friend," Borovsky grumbles.

Russia ignores him and smiles. I'm beginning to recognise all of his smiles. Sometimes they say 'When I kill you, it will make me snort with glee' or, 'You don't deserve the air you breathe; allow me to remove it from your lungs for better use elsewhere'. Others say 'I actually had a good time for once'. I saw all three of those - and more - yesterday over lunch and dinner.

This is the one that says, 'I don't know what you are talking about and I am perfectly innocent'.

There is _definitely_ something inside that stupid thing.

.:.

"So! Productive meeting?" Martin asks me on the plane, purling furiously.

"I've had worse," I murmur, toying with the chestnut in my pocket.

.:.

When I get off the airplane everything seems to happen very quickly, like someone's pushed 'fast forward' on my life.

Get home.

Feed Kuma-beast.

Check cellphone - forgot to turn it back on after getting off flight to Moscow - one voicemail from Alfred -

"_YO, BROSKI_ -" dammit, must remember to hold phone away from ear with him - "_Are you gonna be free after the meeting on Tuesday? Cuz I was thinking we can go hang out afterwards! By which I mean I'm gonna treat you to a beer! By which I mean my boss is totally not gonna dick yours over! Okay awesome bye!_"

- roll my eyes.

One from France in French telling me he'd be in town soon with boss and could they have dinner with "_Québ- euh, c'est-a-dire, Canada_" in regards to the Jeux de la Francophonie.

Roll my eyes again; great, another 'nation within a nation' deal. In addition to putting up with France, that'll give me a headache for a week.

Must buy more Advil.

Check email - several unread despite checking it hours ago - newfound popularity, well _this_ is new -

One from Alfred saying pretty much the same thing as the voicemail.

One from my boss reminding me to go to my meeting on Tuesday with America - roll my eyes _again_, I am not a _child_ you micromanaging _jerkoff_ -

One from Petrova, cc'd Borovsky, Martin, Morozov and some other guy named Braginski, saying how nice it was to meet me and perhaps I would do her the courtesy of informing them the next time I wanted to merely wander into Russia's borders unannounced (which sounds really dirty to a nation).

Another from my boss asking me if I really just up and _went_ to Russia, why would you do that without my say so, that is so unlike you, we need to grab lunch sometime this week I am free Tuesday so I'll see you at noon. _What_, I am already booked Tuesday, you know that -

Another email from Martin saying she was meeting with boss tomorrow, will try to postpone admonishing Tuesday lunch with boss for perhaps Thursday when you are back from Washington, say hello to Alfred he is such a nice boy.

Must buy chocolates for Martin.

Finally, sit down with tea so weak it's the colour of dishwater and try to calm my nerves because holy _maple_ my pulse is racing and adrenaline is shooting through my veins like a drug.

Pull out the chestnut with shaking hands.

You know, this - this whole thing has been very perplexing. On one hand, I was right about Russia. On the other hand, that doesn't make me feel much better about it all - judging from Russia's reaction, he didn't even want to involve his bosses, which means I should not even involve my own, much less other countries - I'll need to go it alone. At least I know a fair bit about helping other nations, but I really need specifics. Now, when I'm going to get those, _aucune idée_. No idea at all.

I can't believe I ever thought of Russia as merely _that weird guy who says weird things_. There was a time not so very long ago that, if he'd given me a chestnut, I would have laughed - a nut giving a nut. I would have thought he's totally cracked. I would have assumed it was a mistake, that he meant to give it to America. Now I'm convinced it contains some kind of secret message.

Holding the chestnut up to the light reveals a tiny, hairline crack down the middle, like someone's split it with a very thin, sharp knife and glued it back together. I pry both halves apart with my thumbnails; the chestnut springs apart and both halves go flying. And thank god I remembered to feed the creature - who's still busy picking the meat from the bones out of the arctic char - or the chestnut would've gotten eaten by my bear-shaped vacuum cleaner.

There is a tiny rolled up piece of paper wedged into one half of the chestnut, which I almost rip in my haste to open it. It reads:

_The __life__ that I have_  
_Is all that I have_  
_And the life __that__ I have_  
_Is __yours_

_The __love__ that I have_  
_Of the life that I have_  
_Is yours __and__ yours and yours_

_A sleep I shall have_  
_A rest I shall have_  
_Yet death will be but a pause_

_For the __peace__ of my years_  
_In the __long__ green grass_  
_Will __be__ yours and yours_  
_And yours_

_(ascending order please)_

At this point, I'd like to remind people that most of the time, I get forgotten. Most of the time, if people do spot me, they think I'm my brother. Russia, to date, has not once mixed me up for America, though occasionally he doesn't see me in meetings. He appears to notice me more since this all started.

And now he is sending me a love poem.

So my first thought was: _What_. The _crap_. And I start to panic.

Ah! but wait, something inside me remembers. This is not what it appears to be.

_This had better not be what it appears to be!_ the other half of me - which is furiously red, mortified, and fixated on the vivid memory of Russia's body pressed close to mine in a hug - insists.

It takes three tries to type the poem's first two lines into Google because my fingers are flying and I cannot make them move any more slowly, but the search results make my stomach settle and I exhale slowly, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating.

The poem isn't original. In fact it's from the second world war, and the first thing that pops up is its Wikipedia entry, which claims it as an example of a poem code.

I _knew_ it, _poem code_. And I begin breathing more easily, though my stomach is still flip-flopping like mad.

It turns out poem codes are fairly simple to use - you agree on a poem beforehand and pick words from it, then assign numbers to the letters in the words you chose. Then the coded message looks just like a set of numbers and if you don't have the original poem, it's impossible to decode. Sure enough, Russia's got several words underlined. I just have to work numbers into a letter.

And what a fabulous excuse Russia has given me to do that with this trade business he wrote me about.

Okay, I think. _Now_ we can get started.

.:.

(Thank you again for reading!)


	3. chapter 2

**a/n: **Gosh I'm so sorry I haven't updated in so long. School+work is very busy for me, but I'll try to do better!

ffnet deleted all the fake emails the first time so I had to get creative with formatting :( I think it looks ugly, and if you would like a nicer version, I highly recommend the copy at AO3 (I update quicker over there, too!). Otherwise, please pretend (*) = the email 'at' symbol!

Also: there was no hidden message in last chapter's poem! It was more instructions for coding a message. The way it works is you assign a number to each letter in your underlined words (ignoring duplicates) and then write with numbers. ex. life was underlined, so L = 1, I = 2, etc etc. In this chapter, it gets used a lot, but the hidden messages are also provided! Anyway, so sorry for any confusion last time!

.:.

2. _(september through november)_

.:.

It's been about thirteen years since I got connected online to other countries' representatives via email.

I haven't looked back once. I know England yearns for the 'good old days' of 'wholesome, face-to-face communication' where he'd get to traipse around and visit people whenever he liked, unannounced, but that's really hard for someone like me to do. Firstly, I'm difficult to see; secondly, I'm difficult to hear. This way is much better, because now I can spam people with email and be more difficult to _ignore_. Heck, I wish all our meetings were just online - almost. Not every representative has computer access and we have to take that into account, too.

I'm not alone in preferring it this way. I know Gilbert's happier with it. He tells me of the time when he knew people like Hesse and Nassau, people he says he once considered something like brothers, something like distant cousins. People I'll never meet, because they're just _gone_. Gilbert says being connected online like this allows his voice to sort of maintain its incredible amplitude despite the kingdom of Prussia having been long annexed to parts of Russia, Poland and Germany. Even though he's pretty terrified that fifty years from now, nobody will remember anything Prussian except for a certain shade of blue.

Well, okay, that's what Gilbert _means_. What he actually says is "I'm too awesome for the world to silence" and then strikes a ridiculous, overly manly pose, while I try not to laugh at him.

It's for reasons like this that we're on a first-name basis when ordinarily, like most nations, I won't let anyone I'm not extremely close to (or related to) call me Matthew.

.:.

**From: matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca  
To: pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**Date: September 24, 12:25 AM**  
**Subject: In regards to your recent correspondence**

Good afternoon Russia,

Thank you for the lovely time in Moscow recently. I appreciate greatly you and your retinue taking time out of your busy schedules to show me around and hope I was not a terrible distraction. Rest assured, the next time I shall visit with appropriate forward notice. Please convey my deepest apologies to both your supervisors.

But for the main point of this email. Your letter came as a surprise, albeit a very pleasant one.

I know there are maple trees in Russia but I am not aware of any ongoing sugaring operations. At any rate I shall explain the process to you. The syrup originates from maple trees - mostly sugar and black maples - which are tapped for the tree sap in early spring. We call the farms sugar bushes, and I can think of at least 20 around the national capital region alone. There are a further 6 in Ontario, 7 in Quebec and 5 in New Brunswick. I believe there are at least 2 (but no more than 12) operational in New England but American maple syrup is, in my opinion, vastly inferior a product.

Anyway, starch is stored in the trunk and root system before the winter, and in spring is converted to sugar which rises in the sap. This is where the tapping process comes in. The sap is then collected and much of the water is boiled off.

Syrup is also graded; the typical exportable product tends to be grade #2. This is the typical colour you're probably familiar with. However, if you want something a bit more ... mature, we can grade all the way to #5, which is very dark with a much sharper flavour, and about the same colour as your average buckwheat honey. I will note the darker tends to be more expensive than the amber which is why people such as our friend Prussia tend to prefer the light (about 8$ CND for half a litre, compared to 9$ CND for half that amount for the darker).

It ought to take about 10-14 business days for a shipment roughly 4 tons to get to Moscow from Ottawa (I say this because the minimum weight requirement for such a distance is 4 tons).

Let me know if you're still interested and I'll forward some paperwork. Frankly - and this is just between you and me - Prussia has been getting lax in his payments (he still owes me about 15 grand) and I do not think a little competition with a better customer would go amiss.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS- There's a strike at Canada Post, so I hope you'll forgive me for not replying in kind and sending this to you via snail mail. I know it's always nice to get actual letters that aren't junk, but I wanted it to arrive within the year.)

.:.

**From: pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru  
****To: matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Cc: borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru**  
**Date: September 29, 2:47 PM**  
**Subject: Re: In regards to your recent correspondence**  
**mailed-by: server . dom . ru**

Dear Canada,

Thank you for your email; it made me smile.

If your winters are anything like mine I suspect the merest hint of spring does not occur until late February at luckiest, so supposing sugar season begins in March - that is some 6 months hence counting October - I think it would be appropriate to start the paperwork now. We can order more than 4 tons, yes?

Playing it safe - I am personally of the mind that the darker the better but that is not speaking commercially - we should probably start with grade #1 and work up from there.

Incidentally, we have an evening's layover in Ottawa on our way back from Washington in mid-November. Would you have time for dinner, perhaps the 16th? Please pass the invite along to your supervisor, of course.

Yours,  
Rossiya (Russia)

(p.s.: You are far too kind to the former state of Prussia.)

(p.p.s.: What were you doing awake at midnight?)

.:.

**From: ****matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: repassist******** (*) csis-scsi . gc** .ca  
**Date: September 29, 3:02 PM**  
**Subject: fax # change request**

Hi Lisa,

Think you can organise a re-direct on my home fax? I need anything sent to (613) 202-5620 to go to it for perhaps the next three weeks.

Thank you!  
Matthew Williams

.:.

**From: ********matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: clearlyawesome (*) gmail . com**  
**Date: September 29, 3:05 PM**  
**Subject: when are you in town next?**

Hey Gil,

You said you and your brother would be in town sometime in November right? When was that again?

Let me know. Thanks,  
Matt

.:.

[Messages]

- -|) Told you already, for American rumpelstiltskin. Whenever that is. Srsly when is it again?

- -|) THANKS GIVING. THE GIVING OF THANKS. FREAKING TURKEYS AND ALL THAT. Omg autocorrect is ruining my life

(|- - Haha yeah, you want to go to England's for Rumpelstiltskin.

(|- - Anyway just curious, and trying to set up schedule for November, thanks for letting me know.

(|- - Also you know I'm making goose this year right? Pretty sure I told you?

- -|) Man you and West both, setting up your schedules a month in advance. Ridiculous.

- -|) Yes you told me. Good is fine.

- -|) Ah CRAP it got me again

- -|) GOOSE WILL BE DELICIOUS THANK YOU

(|- - Sure thing, sausage fingers.

.:.

**From: repassist ****(*) csis-scsi . gc **. ca  
**To: ****matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: September 29, 7:29 PM**  
**Subject: Re: fax # change request**

not a problem. done

.:.

**From: ********matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru  
****Cc: borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: September 29, 8:03 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: In regards to your recent correspondence**

Dear Russia,

Alright, I've just now faxed a bunch of stuff your way. If it's not there soon give me a shout.

You can either fax back or scan and email; whichever you prefer, but if you fax, please don't use the number I sent it from - that's a common departmental line. I have a private number at 202-5620 that you can use that'll send directly to my place in Ottawa.

November is pretty quiet for me. I'm unavailable the 6th and 7th, and for America's Thanksgiving, but besides that I'm at home all month. Give me a call around 5 or whenever you get in from Washington; I'd be happy to show you around Ottawa. Prime Minister Campbell sends his best.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS - Couldn't sleep, change of seasons. Do you get that too?)

.:.

**From: ********pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**To: ************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Cc: ********borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: October 13, 3:18 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: In regards to your recent correspondence**  
**mailed-by: server . dom . ru**

Dear Canada,

Please see attached forms.

Yours,  
Rossiya

6 attachments - download all attachments  
[Procurementofgoods . pdf]  
[Taxaccount_ startup . pdf]  
[Records_ holding . pdf]  
[Federalpermissions . pdf]  
[Signatories . pdf]  
[pridstavitelPS_ engcopy . pdf]

.:.

Wait a minute.

He didn't change the names of the files, so there isn't any message there. And he's added one of his own which - when I open it - appears to be an English translation of a Russian governmental form. To request communication between us. Sure, I'll sign it and fax back, but aren't we already communicating?

Unless his message is just 'h' for 6? It couldn't be...

Glaring at the computer screen doesn't help. "What do you think?" I ask Kuma-thing.

He looks at my laptop and then looks at me. "Food," he says simply.

"No, you've already had dinner. I mean what do you think about the message."

"There's no message," he replies, and gets off my lap to curl up on the couch. Probably figures that if I'm not going to make myself useful as a food-getter, he won't make himself useful as a lap-warmer.

This... is distressing. First I asked him _what is it you need_; and he said _help_, so I said _with what_, and now nothing.

Could it be the people who are watching him are already on to us?

No, that's ridiculous. This is paranoia talking.

Still... it wouldn't hurt to have an excuse to speak with a lot of numbers...

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: k . i . chernenko (*) rada . gov . ua**  
**Date: October 14, 8:08 AM**  
**Subject: question for you**

Hey Katya,

Are you going to be in Alberta sometime soon? Let me know, I'll be out that way myself in a few days. We should catch up!

Sincerely,  
Matthew

.:.

**From: ****k . i . chernenko (*) rada . gov . ua**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: October 14, 1:15 PM**  
**Subject: Re: question for you**

Hi Matthew!

I am here now actualy in Edmonton. I will be back at dacha day after tommorrow though. Flight lands at noon. Come for dinner at dacha, maybe 6 o'clock? Bring wine, I will make borsch!

Katya xoxo

.:.

"So what made you come out all the way over here?" asks Katya.

It's tempting to make a quip about the borsht, but as amazing as it is, that is not why I came. "Oh, you know. Boss is in the area doing the usual oil things. I need to start taking better care of these issues, or else we'll really piss off the greener countries." Understatement of the century, thinks the country who ratified and signed Kyoto, and whose emissions are 24% higher than the maximum requested target.

But that is not why I came, either.

"Ah, I understand," Katya says, "you know, half the time I come here solely to get away from - well, I don't want to sound unkind..."

She trails off in a manner of wanting to talk about something sensitive and needing to be goaded into it.

I raise my eyebrows in what I hope is a prompting manner and not invasive.

It works. "Russia has been asking for the gas payments, and ... and I regret that there is no more money for to give him, in the old country. This is one of the reasons I have been here so often recently."

"He's your brother," I reply, "I'm sure he can make some sort of arrangement with you."

"Yes, I think so too, but things are different. For example, if your brother owed you money, you wouldn't insist on it."

"I wouldn't, but my boss might," I muse.

"I doubt it is his bosses that are the problem," Katya says sadly. It's unlike her to be so pessimistic.

We eat the borsht silently for a minute. "Well," I say over a slice of rye, "if you have them handy, why don't I take a look at your farming records here and the gas invoices from Suncor? I can see what I can do at my level tax-wise, see if there's anything we can do. Worse comes to worse, it's a lost cause, but you've been doing a lot of farming here, and a lot of farming over there, and there's enough oil expenses. I should be able to finagle something."

Katya looks like Christmas came early and clasps her tiny hands to her giant chest in a heartfelt swoon. "Oh, Matthew! Would you do that for me?"

Accounting classes definitely come in handy. And besides my ulterior motive, it never hurts to have a beautiful woman like Katya on your side, I think, as I pore over the records later. She's got them pretty well organised, so it isn't difficult.

But more to the point, I have an evil plan at works.

And speaking of people on my side...

.:.

**From: ********************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: hero (*) ic . fbi . gov**  
**Date: October 27, 11:47 PM**  
**Subject: Thanksgiving**

Hi Alfred,

I know you're usually busy doing your own thing for your own Thanksgiving but in case you don't have any other plans, Prussia (he says you can call him Gilbert btw) and Germany were going to drop by, which means the Italies will probably tag along. Could be fun? Better than spending it with your boss!

Let me know.  
Matthew

.:.

[Messages]

- -|) That depends.. What are you making?

(|- - Goose. It's unamerican, but delicious.

- -|) I WILL SO BE THERE.

- -|) I was gonna make a turkey, but it can stay in the freezer until xmas

- -|) But just cause I'm, yanno, your brother and the hero and all

(|- - Excellent. Swing by round 4?

- -|) Wait Is engaldn coming?

(|- - Not unless you want him to...?

- -|) Hm

- -|) Lemme think about it

.:.

**From: ****matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****arthur . kirkland (*) homeoffice . gsi . gov . uk**  
**Date: October 28, 12:02 AM**  
**Subject: American Thanksgiving**

Want to come? So far it's me (as in Matthew - so Canada), America, Prussia, Germany, and the Italies haven't said they'll come, but I think they probably will. Am making goose. Weekend of the 25-27th. Bring the Celts if you want.

-Matthew (Canada)

(PS - this is Canada.)

.:.

**From: ********arthur . kirkland (*) homeoffice . gsi . gov . uk**  
**To: ********matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: October 28, 2:55 AM**  
**Subject: Re: American Thanksgiving**

Sure, why not.

Can I bring gin instead?

.:.

**From: ********matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ************arthur . kirkland (*) homeoffice . gsi . gov . uk**  
**Date: October 28, 3:04 AM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: American Thanksgiving**

Gin is ... sort of like your Celtic brothers?

See you in a month.

In Ottawa.

Ottawa, CANADA.

.:.

**From: ************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****repassist ****(*) csis-scsi . gc **. ca  
**Date: November 2, 2:29 PM**  
**Subject: favour**

Hi Lisa,

Can you create me a business number of 711 410 711 with at least 3000 dummy records in all available program accounts as appropriate? It's to be a placeholder account for the current Alberta business whose federal number is 110 942 327.

Please copy the existing records and fill the remainder of the 3000 with fakes, please. Tell Ashok in CRA (do not email him please, actually go over there and bug him in person) that if any inquiries should occur on the 711 account, he is to call me first and I will handle them directly.

Thank you kindly!  
Matthew Williams

.:.

**From: ****repassist ****(*) csis-scsi . gc **. ca  
**To: ************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 3, 1:29 AM**  
**Subject: Re: favour**

ok all done. req'd BN ready to use. records go back to 1892. i had too much fun with photoshop.

also im now out of taxi chits. 2 more books pls?

.:.

[Messages]

- -|) Ok he can come.

- -|) Heros should be nice like that.

(|- - Awesome, I'll let him know immed.

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
******Cc: ********borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 3, 3:18 PM**  
**Subject: Ukraine's Canadian tax return ****  
**

Hi Russia,

Was in Alberta recently and stopped by to see your sister. I took a look at her tax records and found a few peculiarities that I'd like to take a closer look at. The files - vendor invoices from Suncor and Ukraine's records from farming, plus her previous two tax returns - are attached in the zip (sorry about the wonky attachment name, it gets autogenerated from our federal site with the name of the first record).

Please provide me the same from the Russian side of things.

Thanks,  
Canada

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[BN711410711-RC1254 . zip]

.:.

**From: ********************pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**To: ********************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Cc: ****************borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 9:38 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**  
**mailed-by: server . dom . ru**

Dear Canada,

I am very glad you drew this to my attention. I looked into it immediately and I too have found inconsistencies. I regret my sister does not have a personal accountant so thank you for your own efforts.

First: there is some trouble on page 14 of the 9th form. Line 5 does not match line 3 but it should. What software were you using? If I am not mistaken, it appears to be one of America's. I know I do not always have faith in his products but this is an obvious bug. The most recent (11th edition) was released 04/04 here, meaning - my forgiveness, please - yours is at least 5 years out of date. I have an English copy of the 9th edition that I can send you that is much better and has a few of the kinks worked out. You will need the CD, but due to some necessary internal checks, I cannot send it immediately. I will try to have it mailed out by November 12.

Second: I admit I am not an accountant, but I think there is an error in a similar file on our side in regards to paying taxes for work done in one country while residing permanently in another. In Russia - and so too with Ukraine - there are several forms that you typically have to fill out for this. However, for our purposes, we may elect to have Ukraine registered as an owner of a dacha (summer home). She is, after all, not there 7-8 months of the year, although I understand she has a fairly permanent staff in Canada to take care of things in her absence.

The difference is, in Canada this is still considered a permanent residence; in Russia (and Ukraine), it is not so. So one of the forms you have sent - 181-017-6 - will not be needed. This would also work out better for her, credit-wise. For your reference, please see the attached copy entitled F56487111, which is a similar procedural application, though it takes place in a different province. This is a Russian form, but in speaking to the correct department at the Verkhovnaya Rada Ukraini I am told the forms are identical.

Third: as for the invoices, I take issue on the one dated 4/7 through to the 15th of that month where you have mentioned some 8 million L of heating oil. Canada, this simply cannot be right. By my estimates this should be more like 12 million. No lower than 10 million for certain. 12 million is roughly where she would be for operations in Ukraine and they are roughly the same scale as her operations with you. Has she updated her Canadian equipment?

Last: are you still free on the 16th for dinner? Our flight gets in to Ottawa at 3 pm. We leave the 17th at 5 pm. We will give you a call at 5 after we have landed and settled at the hotel, though it may be more like 6 if air traffic from Washington is no good. They force us to wait longer and longer these days. I also will admit to having my concerns over the aircraft; this airline still uses Cessna 414s for certain trips, and while ours will be younger than some 55 years old I have my misgivings, especially considering the crash some 4 years ago.

Anyway it is getting late, and some of us have an 11-hour flight to Kolyma tomorrow.

Yours,  
Rossiya

(p.s., Really, I am glad you caught this. As you know the relationship between my sister and me can be described mostly as estranged. It is something I very much regret but times being what they are I cannot do much about it. If you should go see her again please give her my best.)

1 attachment - download all attachments  
[12form_ taxes . pdf]

.:.

My first thought with this email is 'well damn, Russia's being really obvious now'. Then I decode the thing and think, oh crap - dammit crap hell _maple_, this is not good.

I asked him _are you alright_, and he comes back with _not free to say much they already suspect the letters_.

Well let them suspect, I think furiously, they won't figure it out _that_ soon. And meanwhile, we could step it up with a little distraction ploy.

.:.

**From: ****************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****repassist******************************** (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 9:59 PM**  
**Subject: fax # changes, again**

Hi Lisa,

Need another re-direct. Send anything for 613 202 5611 or 613 202 5621 to 613 202 5620 (which is already redirecting to my home line).

Thanks,  
Matthew

.:.

**From: repassist******************************** (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 10:10 PM**  
**Subject: Re: fax # changes, again**

done. but i gotta ask, this is the 3rd time you've asked for something like this. what's up? should i be worried?

-lisa

.:.

**From: ****************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************************pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**Cc: ************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 11:13 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return****  
**

Dear Russia,

Okay, I have some problems with these lines on your example form...

line 15 - page 2,

line 12 - page 5,

and line 11 - page 7, which refers back to line 17 on page 5 again.

Well okay, not really 'problems', more like, 'I want to pick your brain about these and don't want to read the Russian constitution'. Can you give me a call maybe in the morning - my time - about these issues? Try 202 5611 (you may have to dial 9 for a line). The -20 number I sent you before is the fax line, as is 202 5621.

There is - I think - a mistake in the invoice from 4/1 to 7/11, in particular the meter marked S1012. Is that right, 59L to a building of some 18 hundred square feet? I guess if it's just a grain silo... And Gazprom's figures for November - actually, is that 9/11, or 11/9? At any rate that reminds me of an error in my files. Can discuss when you call - again, don't call the -20 number I gave you before, that's the fax.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS - Am going to see her this weekend actually. Will pass along greetings but it may make her cry.)

.:.

**From: ****************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****repassist******************************** (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 11:24 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: fax # changes, again**

Lisa,

No, do not be worried. Everything is fine, I'm just helping a friend out of a tight spot at hte moment. Everything's cool with Canada and that's all you need ot ever be concerned about. This is external.

Also please do NOT tell Colin. I can't think of a non-fishy way to say 'don't tell my boss about this' so I won't bother. Just don't tell him. And if he asks, mysteriously have other places to be.

Please trust me on this, okay?

-Matthew

.:.

**From: ************repassist******************************** (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ********************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 11:26 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: fax # changes, again**

it's a good thing i love you, Canada.

.:.

**From: ************************************pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**To: ************************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
******Cc: ************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 11:31 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**  
**mailed-by: server . dom . ru**

Canada,

I regret that there are circumstances preventing me from calling you. But we shall talk over dinner in two weeks, yes?

Yours,  
Rossiya

(p.s. - About what?)

.:.

**From: ********************************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ********************************************pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**********Cc: ************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, ****colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 5, 11:32 PM  
**

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return

Hi Russia,

That'll have to do. See you then.

Regards,  
Canada

(PS - You're her brother. You'll know.)

.:.

**From: ************************************petrova (*) fsb . ru**  
**To: ************************************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Cc: ************************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru**  
**Date: November 6, 12:07 AM**  
**Subject: Your one and only warning**

Williams,

I do not know what it is you are planning but you will cease it immediately.

I will not hesitate to invoke your superior office in this matter. Do not force my hand.

Svetlana Ilyinichna Petrova

.:.

**From: ****************************************************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************************************petrova (*) fsb . ru**  
**Date: November 6, 12:09 AM**  
**Subject: Out of Office AutoReply: Your one and only warning**

Please note that I will be away from the office until Monday, November 8. During this time Eva Lebreton will be exercising all signing authorities. Please continue to route all correspondence to this office in the usual manner. Thank you.

Veuillez prendre note que je serai absent du bureau jusqu'au 8 Novembre. Durant mon absence, Eva Lebreton exercera tous pouvoirs de signature. Veuillez vous assurer que toute correspondance soit acheminée à notre bureau de manière habituelle. Merci.

.:.

"I hear I am rich now," Katya laughs when she answers my knock at the door of her summer cottage. I pass her the updated tax return - with cheque - from CRA. "Well, rich_er_," she corrects herself, looking at the amount on the cheque.

"I don't know whether that's enough to send you home for Christmas responsibly." I don't want to inquire into her finances any more than I already have.

"Oh, that is okay," she replies, smiling, "Come, there is food!"

We have a quick dinner of soup, rye bread and pickles and are discussing other aspects of the return - I remind her about the sections she keeps missing which would allow her to accumulate credits and carry them forward from year to year - when the phone rings. One long ring, followed by two shorter ones. "That is long-distance," Katya says, curious. "I should take this."

"Don't mind me at all," I say, "I'll still be here."

Since I can't understand a word of Ukrainian - or Russian for that matter - besides _da_ and _nyet_, I don't feel quite so bad leaning on the threshold of the kitchen listening in. Besides, it's the best I can do for friendly moral support at the moment, as her smile fades, her shoulders hunch, and her expression slowly sours. Her tone goes from friendly, to placating, to pleading, to mildly offended, to weepy.

And then finally she bursts into tears, and my heart breaks a little. I must have some sort of hero complex after all.

I definitely know where I've seen her smile before. Her brother has the same one, and when they're truly, honestly happy, it's enough to light up a room. And when it's anything less than 100%, it drives a stake through your chest. (In Russia's case, for slightly different reasons.) I don't even know what she's talking about - although I certainly have my suspicions - but I'm already thinking of ways to make it better, ways to get that smile back.

Besides, it's more than partially my fault. _Distract with row with Belarus tomorrow_, I told him.

Somehow Russia's distraction with Belarus must have dragged her into it, and I am so sorry that it had to happen. Maybe I should have thought about that first...

But before I can get too lost in berating myself, Katya slams the phone back on its cradle and begins to wail.

.:.

A half hour later, once she's calmed down and is breathing a little more normally (and the shoulder and breast of my shirt are soaked - not like I really care about that), she explains.

"That was Belarus," she says. "Also my sister, as Russia is my brother."

"Didn't have good news?"

"Oh, no! Big understatement," she jokes, still sniffling. "You must understand. She has had same boss for thirty years now. Same human. There are elections, but - it is like that time when I had riots, you remember, yes? Well with Biela, it is like that all the time now. Elections are jokes, they are unfair. It is not a happy place, and so Belarus is not a happy person now."

"I see." Quite frankly, I would like to know of a time when Belarus was a happy person.

"And, and her and Russia - and I do not agree with this, please, but they have some kind of strange union I am not in. It is exclusive and it makes me kind of sick. And to be honest I blame Belarus and her ridiculous anger for all this strange hype of 'Ukraine is enemy of state' image that Russia appears to have."

"No! I'm positive he doesn't think that of you!"

"Nyet, he does, I know he does, he has said so!"

Backpedalling very necessary. I'm making no headway here on the conflict and only making Katya cry harder. Not nice, Matthew. Think hero... what would Alfred do?

Katya presses her face into my shoulder and her very ample chest into my body and I forget all about what Alfred would do. I am probably redder than borsht right now. "U-uh, well, did Belarus say anything about Russia on the phone?"

Katya sniffles. "Well, I should explain backstory first. There have been rumours of corruption as I have said with Belarus. She is being undemocratic. And this union with Russia is not good for him for this reason, because so soon after some eighty years of the same party... Russia needs to be able to choose his boss for once!"

"I'm inclined to agree," I murmur, stroking her back gently.

"Anyway," she continues, "there was incident a few years ago - riots, you know - and he asked her to do investigation. We never heard of these results of investigation. Presumably she did the work but I never heard of the outcome. Now, he asks out of nowhere for the results, and so she hands over the work. Of course what he sees is simple - main opposition people in riots mysteriously disappearing, demonstrations - even ones not violent - being recorded and those participating targeted later by police, it is the usual.

"So Russia merely puts name to the ugly face and says it to her, and she got angry. She said she called him hypocritical and judgmental, and perhaps may he clean his own doorstep before - oh, but this is vulgar - before shitting on hers."

I try not to laugh too hard, but the mental image is hilarious and a giggle escapes me. She smiles, though wanly. "Um. Sorry."

"No, it is nothing. My sister certainly has way with words. I asked her what he had to say to that, and she said not much, though Premyer-Ministr Borovsky and Prezident Petrova had much to say. All not repeatable here! Far too vulgar. Anyway, this was yesterday. Few hours later, Russia cancels all gas delivery to Belarus' capital city and says it is high time that his _dorogaya_ pay the money everybody else pays, since she gives him no respect.

"Well Biela doesn't like that, and complains, and he tells her not to complain when money she is making is going to finer dresses and prettier knives and not actually solving problems such as infrastructure." Katya sighs. "And that is when he brought me in as example, because Kiev - well of course, Kiev is not part of glorious Belarussian and Russian Union State, because who would ask Ukrayina to join any such state! Is not like I need medical care or education or social programs or anything, no, of course!"

"Which is when she called you up to complain?" Katya nods and sniffles, her chest heaving, _oh jesus Matthew stop noticing her chest_, and before she begins crying again I pat her on the head, trying not to be too awkward about it, and she leans back onto me. "Ah, gosh. I'm sorry, Katya, this is really rotten for you."

Part of me hopes, as I'm holding a silently sobbing Ukraine, that the phone will ring again. I really wouldn't mind giving Belarus what for.

By the time Katya stops crying it's been an hour, and the soup has gone cold. "I am sorry to be such miserable company tonight," Katya says, shaking her head. "But I am just no longer in mood to entertain."

"No worries," I reassure, "no worries at all. I understand completely, I've been in this situation before." She still looks sad so I tilt her chin up to look me in the eye. "Feel better soon, okay?"

She pouts. She looks _miserable_. "I will."

"Okay. Oh - also," I remember, "America's coming up the weekend of the 24th this month. If you're still in Canada, hop a flight to Ottawa, there'll be a bunch of us there. Saturday night. Not quite a party but more than just a dinner, you know?"

Katya smiles in a sort of sad, self-pitying way. "It is nice of you to invite me," she says in a tone that says 'thanks, but no thanks'.

"Katya. It's not a pity invite. You should hang out with us - none of us really have friends outside of... _our kind_. We'd genuinely love to have you." She blushes and doesn't meet my eyes. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

I'm on the plane back to Ottawa before I remember I didn't get to tell her Russia said hello. But that's probably for the best, given her state at the time.

.:.

**From: ****rose (*) defense . gouv . fr**  
**To: ****matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**, 213 others  
**Date: November 7, 2:45 PM**  
**Subject: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

How long did I say this would take? Hmm?

I believe the correct answer is four months, two weeks and a day. Which falls into my prediction bracket!

Which means I win the pool. Pay up, Romano.

.:.

**From: ****der . vertreter (*) bmvg . de**  
**To: ********rose (*) defense . gouv . fr**, 213 others  
**Date: November 7, 2:48 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

EU members take note: this is an exceedingly irresponsible way to do business and it will ultimately lead to economic disaster. Mark my words.

The rest of you: stop paying attention to France. You are merely feeding the fire.

.:.

**From: ********matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ********rose (*) defense . gouv . fr**  
**Date: November 7, 2:51 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

Interesting. M le redacteur, tu peux me donner les infos?

.:.

**From: ********rose (*) defense . gouv . fr**  
**To: ************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 7, 3:02 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

Oui mon beau, je pourrais _t'informer_ des infos, bien sûr. (Cessons de parler en anglicismes, hein?)

I was not present at the altercation but my old friend Serbia was hanging outside and heard most of it.

Apparently Russia had requested an investigation after the dairy incident a few years ago, and so he asked for the results. She gave them to him, and he evidently didn't like what he read because he accused her of violations and corruptions. Well, I don't blame him! But she claimed the shovel mocking the poker, so that got Russia's bosses into a huff, which got Belarus' boss into a huff.

So then, during the war games recently - have you ever heard anything so absurd in your life, I really doubt there is much game-like about them - Russia cancels gas delivery until Minsk can pay international prices, claiming that the money Belarus pockets by paying cheaper gas bills, is just going into the upper echelons of that corrupt government and nobody else is seeing a cent.

Belarus says what's wrong with that.

So then Serbia said that Russia said something along the lines of, 'all I'm saying is Kiev pays more money for less gas than you do and still manages to direct it responsibly into the right hands'.

Then Serbia said Belarus said something about favouritism and 'you've always loved her more I knew it', and now they're not talking.

Also, stp could you remove the out of office message, if you are replying to emails you must be in the office...

.:.

**From: ************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ************rose (*) defense . gouv . fr**  
**Date: November 7, 3:14 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

France, merci.

En effet je ne suis pas 'de retour' à ce moment. Je reviens demain.

.:.

**From: ************rose (*) defense . gouv . fr**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 7, 3:17 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Russia on the outs with Belarus again**

Ah, ce n'est pas bien de se cacher de son chef!

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************************************petrova (*) fsb . ru**   
**Cc: ****************************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru**  
**Bcc: c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 8, 9:03 AM  
****Subject: In re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return****  
**

With respect, President Petrova, I have not given you a name besides Canada, and therefore I request that you refer to me as such, regardless of what you can deduce from my email address.

I also do not see what importance this bears on your Federation. I included both yourself and Prime Minister Borovsky on the cc list as formality and because the Russian representative has been doing so since our correspondences began; so, it would be polite.

This matter is nothing more than correspondence between a man and his sister.

And all the taxes that they owe me.

But mostly between a man and his sister.

Sincerely,  
Canada

.:.

**From: ********************************************petrova (*) fsb . ru**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Cc: ********************************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru**  
**Date: November 8, 1:20 PM**  
**Subject: Re: In re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

I was not as you say born yesterday.

Fine, we shall play games. I will be looking into this matter myself.

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ********************************************petrova (*) fsb . ru**  
**Cc: ********************************************borovsky (*) fsb . ru**  
**Bcc: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 8, 5:03 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: In re: Ukraine's Canadian tax return**

You have my blessing to do so President Petrova, though I admit I do not know what you expect to find.

Sincerely,  
Canada

.:.

**From: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 12:54 AM**  
**Subject: What the hell are you doing**

Just got back from a week in Washington and what the hell is this shitstorm. Jesus Matthew, this is as close as you get to inflammatory without actually saying the words 'bring it on'.

Mind explaining to me what's going on with Russia?

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 9:03 AM**  
**Subject: Re: What the hell are you doing**

Colin,

Nothing's going on with Russia. His bosses seem to think something is afoot when all I did is look into a friend's tax returns. As a registered accountant I'm even legally allowed to do that.

The small difference being that the friend in question is the representative of Ukraine, elder sister to the representative of Russia.

This is still no place for Russia's bosses to stick their noses into. It's just a tax inquiry. Happens to all of us.

I'd be grateful if you could please tell the Russians the cold war ended with Yeltsin because frankly I think Petrova wants to shoot me.

.:.

**From: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 9:57 AM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

You're damn right Petrova is going to shoot you. You know she and Borovsky are both ex-KGB, right?

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 10:13 AM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

How the holy maple did these people get elected?

.:.

**From: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 2:18 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

How the holy fuck do you think.

Just got off the phone with Petrova. Nice long chat. Delete all emails relating to the tax inquiry. We need to have lunch. Tomorrow, 1pm after the meeting with Treasury Board. They're all going out for Indian anyway and I want a convenient excuse not to have heartburn.

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 2:21 PM**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: What the hell are you doing**

There is nothing wrong with Indian food. You just need to stop letting Singh antagonise you into ordering the spiciest thing on the menu.

It's okay to be a spice virgin, Colin.

.:.

**From: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**To: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 2:23 AM**  
**Subject: Nobody likes a smart ass**

Delete the goddamn emails already, Matthew.

.:.

**From: ****************matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**To: ****c********************************************olin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 14, 2:26 AM**  
**Subject: Everybody likes a smart ass**

Fine, but just remember, we're taking the Russians out to dinner on Wednesday.

I think India Palace would be nice.

.:.

Okay, so it's clear I don't like having luncheons with my boss.

First of all, I don't really like my boss. He's the same old prime minister I've had for the past twenty, thirty years - elderly white male with fairly conservative lean - same style, same look, same politics, different human being.

I admit it, I never really got over my crush on Trudeau.

Colin Campbell in particular was elected mostly thanks to promises made to Ontario and Quebec that, between you and me, he doesn't intend on keeping. Funded by Alberta oil, he's also not terribly popular in the Maritimes or BC. And you can bet the North doesn't think he's anything special.

Since I represent all of Canada - and that's no exclusions - this means that I feel pretty dissatisfied most of the time. And so I send him emails that are less than super nice. And I honestly don't even feel that bad about it anymore.

The other reason I dislike having these luncheons with my boss is because he orders in takeout, and it's usually burgers. At first I thought this was on purpose, because he didn't like me (because that's what I would've done). But then he said it was because "ethnic food is weird". At least it's Harvey's this time and not McDonald's (which we had yesterday) but the greasy smell of french fries does nothing to settle my stomach after the tense two-hour meeting with Treasury Board about how much money we don't have.

As much fun as those guys aren't, I would suck it up for a decent chicken tandoori.

Colin closes the door behind him. We're in the Quiet Room, so named because it's sound insulated something like four times. I don't use it often.

"So maybe you can begin by telling me what the fuck you think you're doing?" he says.

"Absolutely nothing at all," I explain patiently.

"Come on, Matthew, don't give me that nonsense."

"No, I mean it! I mean, here's what I did. I went out with you to Edmonton, we parted ways in the airport, you went off to Calgary. I went to see Ukr- the Ukrainian representative - she has a summer cottage out near Saint Paul on the other side of the lake. We had a nice dinner, she mentioned by way of passing her troubles back home, I asked if there was anything I could do, and before you knew it I had a folder of invoices and tax returns. Simple as that."

I neglect to mention the point where I've been sending coded messages to Russia, and when he tells me that they - whoever they are - suspect our email exchanges, that I tell him to distract them by picking a giant fight with Belarus, which explains current events in Russia and Belarus.

"Okay rule one, stop volunteering," Colin says.

_No_, I think sullenly, and scowl.

"Rule two, why do the Russians care if that's all you were doing?"

"How should _I_ know?" I ask. "Didn't you just say you got off the phone with Petrova yesterday? What'd she have to say about it?"

"Nothing conclusive, she just told me to tell you off."

"It's not my fault the Russian president is super paranoid," I mutter. "I mean it, there's nothing in that tax package that I found that is illegal in any way. There are a few loopholes on our side of things that she could exploit - other people do it all the time, it's quite normal - she was putting stuff on the wrong lines and missing out on significant credits. Which helped her in other parts and before you knew it, she's got an extra four hundred grand to play with at the end of every year. For the past fifteen years. So, y'know, adjusting for inflation, and all that interest -"

"We don't do interest for tax back pay!"

"Uh, we do for my good friend _Ukraine_," I retort.

Colin still doesn't look happy. "Matthew, that sounds like magic. Tax magic."

"You forget the scale at which we're talking." Of course, an extra four hundred grand per year sure sounds like magic, if you've forgotten that Ekaterina Chernenko is not a regular human.

"Right," he says, understanding, "okay. So Russia."

"So Russia is her brother who also provides energy for her back home, and I thought, there is a perfectly logical reason we have these quirks on our tax forms, perhaps the same can be said with Russian forms. She pays him for the gas, but can't always make the bills so she winds up having to borrow so that she can continue receiving gas so that she can do more business which never makes enough money to pay the gas bill. It's a never ending cycle."

"Pity party aside, why do the Prime Minister and President care?"

"I don't honestly know," I reply, and it isn't a lie, although I have my suspicions. "They were elected by the country, for the country - I don't know why they care that Ukraine has extra money which is coming back to them anyway. If anything this increases ties between Ukraine and Russia which between you and me, would make their representative a lot happier. You know they haven't seen each other since Christmas '91? Can you say worst Christmas ever?" At least, for Russia.

"I said pity party aside, Matthew, and I meant it." Colin sighs. "We have another problem. Ashok from CRA came to me today saying Petrova's people are looking into this matter and requesting private Canadian files."

"Well, naturally." Though Ashok in CRA was supposed to come to _me_, because I told Lisa to tell him to direct all correspondence regarding Katya's business my way so that we could avoid this incident with Colin. Ashok is evidently either a dick or an idiot. Mental note to have him moved to Corrections where he can do less harm. "She said she'd look into it. I didn't doubt her. She's free to look all she wants up to a point. We don't disclose everything. Not until they apply for special permissions just like the rest of the world and in so doing, disclose their reasons why they feel the need to look at these documents." Reasons which I suspect involve the representative of Russia more than anybody else.

"Except that she is the Russian president."

"We still don't disclose everything. Colin, this isn't like dealing with America. We don't just lie back and think of maple trees here. We go as far as is diplomatically necessary, and then tie things off."

I sigh. "I'm really sorry." I'm really not. "I didn't think this'd be opening such a can of worms."

"It shouldn't be," Colin agrees. "Fine, I'll - I'll do what I can on my end to shut things down quietly. Maybe this whole thing will just blow over. Because they're angry at nothing and have no reason to be angry."

In my experience, however, that's when people are most willing to keep a grudge. They're angry, and they don't know why, and rather than admit that they're angry for no reason which is silly, they get angrier because somehow it is all your fault. I hope Russia's bosses know better. It's small comfort knowing I can't die if I wind up on the business end of a martini made with polonium.

As for the emails... I get Lisa to delete them off the government's server, yes, but first, I cut a CD and print them out for my records too, the ones I keep upstairs in my closet buried under files that include a letter to East Germany requesting his help, and a Soviet-styled birthday card.

Something is very strange and the more I find, the less I like.

.:.

My boss comes by my office the following morning.

"Matthew," he says angrily, "what day is it."

I look over at the clock on my computer. "The 15th," I say slowly. "It's a Tuesday. Why?"

"Apparently Petrova and Borovsky flew to Washington yesterday." I put on my best innocent face. "Don't act like you don't know anything about this."

I stop and pretend to think about it for a minute. Like I haven't had it circled on my personal calendar for two months now. "No no, that's right," I remember, snapping my fingers, "the Russian representative, president and prime minister are in town tomorrow night. It was in the emails I deleted. We're taking them for dinner, right? I sure hope you didn't forget 'cause, uh, you really don't want to stand up the Russian Federation."

Colin goes bright red with anger. "It's a good thing for you I tend to work late Wednesdays anyway," he snaps, and turns around in a huff.

"Can we still go to India Palace?" I ask, and he slams my door.

.:.

Dinner is awkward, and ridiculous.

Russia's bosses don't let me sit beside him, so we're across from each other. Petrova and Borovsky flank Russia on either side, and for a good two minutes Colin thinks very carefully about where to sit.

On one hand, Petrova is the head of state. Should technically sit across from her so that he can talk to her more easily.

On the other hand, Borovsky is the one who really holds the power. So should technically sit across from him.

On either hand, both Petrova and Borovsky look like they want to introduce Colin _and_ me to a firing squad.

I watch with a modicum of pleasure as Colin's eyes go back and forth frantically, and try to contain my joy.

He winds up next to Borovsky, across from Petrova. Russia's eyes gleam and I can hear him thinking, _ah, bad choice, comrade_.

Colin strikes up a diplomatically neutral conversation which is good and will help smooth over whatever rift I might have caused by pissing off Petrova. Colin is very talented at that.

Inevitably Petrova brings the topic back to oil. But that's okay, that's Colin's favourite topic to talk about with the Russians anyway. Although I'm not terribly interested in the conversation, judging from the tenseness in voices, Borovsky and Petrova are.

Instead, I watch Russia. When the food arrives, he pokes at his lamb stew, smiling at it in a sort of idle way. He has a very expressive face, I think, and I remember thinking it only had the one expression but now, now it's different. There are all sorts of nuances I pick up.

While Colin inadvertently does a good job of distracting Russia's bosses, Russia meets my gaze head-on. I blush, feeling caught red-handed, and lower them, before I realise that doing that might look like flirtatious eye-tag.

It's okay for France to get that idea! It's not okay for Russia.

So I force my eyes up and return volley. And that is when, with a playful and toying grin, he winks. Something about the motion is just slightly unnatural, forced.

I try not to let my face change, but something in my eyes must betray me, because he does it again.

Then he blinks once, slowly. And waits. Then twice in rapid succession. And waits. A quick blink, then a longer, slow blink.

I _have_ seen this before. Old film footage of a man - one of America's - being interviewed. But my morse code is rusty and probably worse than Russia's.

A long, slow blink, with a short one - huh, his eyelashes are about the same colour as his eyebrows- jesus, keep it _together_, Matthew, you are missing the message. Another long, slow blink, and three short ones. Finally, three short ones.

T-H-A-N-K-S.

I don't know what he's thanking me for. I haven't done anything. But the message makes me grin involuntarily. I wish I could blame it entirely on the shock at Russia's boldness, because he is sitting _right next_ to his bosses! - whom I suspect are the ones he needs to hide from - while he does this. Guy's got balls.

But I'm also smiling from the simple shock of having kept this all so quiet as long as we have. I almost can't believe we've gotten away with it, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't give me a giddy thrill. Russia has been the most interesting conversation I've had in years. I just hope it doesn't come at his expense.

Russia smiles at my smile, a sort of childish, joyful, relaxed grin, and I feel it jolt my stomach. We practically resonate, because as I watch his lips, I can't stop my own from curving up and that makes Russia's smile grow.

With great effort, we calm ourselves down.

W-H-A-T F-O-R, I blink back.

He makes it all the way through to the I in 'everything' before Petrova snaps something in Russian, and Russia petulantly turns back to his food, still smiling. A warmth suffuses me to my fingertips that has nothing to do with garam masala.

As we get up to leave, Colin makes his excuses quickly and leaves first, ditching me here with Petrova and Borovsky the wonder twins. With Colin gone, they definitely don't fancy a tour of Ottawa, although Russia seems to regret it.

But before Russia has a chance to vanish with his bosses into the taxi that will take them back to the hotel, I stop him. "Hey, um," I start, awkwardly, and rather than finish my sentence I get a better idea.

I move closer to give him a hug. Certainly, I'm just returning the gesture he showed me in Moscow, right?

But all the same, peeking over Russia's shoulder, I see Petrova and Borovsky's faces pale. I'm not sure whether that makes me feel justified or defensive.

"It was nice to see you," I say, instead of what I'm thinking, which is, _your bosses are jerks_.

"Ah, you - you too," Russia returns, about as awkward as I feel.

"Katya says hello. And that she misses you," I whisper in his ear, while I've got my chance.

Russia stops moving and freezes. Have I gone too far?

"Sh-she told me to tell you she loves you," I finish.

His arms tighten around me. "Thank you," he murmurs, and when we part his eyes are strangely glittering, and he isn't smiling for once. "This means a great deal to me."

Sometimes it's worth it to lie.

They pile into the taxi like it's a clown car and leave, and I think that, on second thought, I'm really much happier that Colin didn't come with us. I have enough trouble explaining one direction of national meddling as it is.

.:.

**Translations:**  
M le redacteur, tu peux me donner les infos?: Mister reporter, can you give me any details?  
Oui mon beau, je pourrais _t'informer_ des infos, bien sur. (Cessons de parler en anglicismes, hein?): Yes my dear, I could _inform_ you of details, of course. (let's quit it with the anglicisms, hmm?)  
Francois, merci. En effet je ne suis pas 'de retour' a ce moment. Je reviens demain.: Francis, thanks. I'm actually not 'back' right now. I'm back in tomorrow.  
Ah, ce n'est pas bien de se cacher de son chef!: You shouldn't hide from your boss!

If anybody ever has code questions or just wants to come say hi please find me here: sarageneris . tumblr . com :D Thank you for reading and to those who reviewed a super extra special thank you! I really love to hear all your thoughts :3


	4. chapter 3

**a/n:** there is no Russia in this chapter, sadly. But there is India, who is pretty cool! I promise more interesting things will happen next time :)

askjdhas and _thank you all so much_ for leaving such nice reviews! I really really appreciate it and promise to reply once my midterms are done tomorrow.

.:.

3. _(november through end of the year)_

.:.

Two Saturdays later, I make the mistake of bringing Kuma-creature with me when hunting for goose in the early morning.

"This thing is covered in feathers!" I tell him, when I find my piss-poor excuse for a fieldhound hovering over a messy carcass (which was supposed to be dinner). "You don't like feathers!"

"It's sort of like seal," he explains, and then dives his face back into the bird's breast, snorting grotesquely. I roll my eyes and look for a second goose. The flock has risen now, scared away by the sound of the first shot, but I'm in luck - there is a nice one that's either too fat to be aerodynamic or too stupid to realise there's a reason his buddies left him.

Either way, I track the bird down (by myself, because Kuma-beast is busy and I don't want to have to shoot a third bird), fire, and am very glad when it lands and I find the thing is large enough to feed all of us.

The rest of the day is filled with preparations and by 4 pm, everything's in the oven, or bubbling on the stove, or on the table, set to go. I'm exhausted.

Naturally, that's when Alfred and Gilbert show up. While they're not looking, I start the coffee machine.

Both Italies wind up coming, so I should discern which is which. Usually I just call whichever one is nearest at hand 'Italy', but that's not very polite.

It's not Italy Veneziano's first time having goose but he isn't terribly impressed about it, so he goes off to make some pasta as a substitute. I try not to be too insulted. Besides, the way in which he tells me _it's just not that tasty_ is simple and innocent, almost childish in itself, and I can't be any more insulted than that time I brought Alfred to Wonderland and a kid told him he was fat when he broke the Tilt-A-Whirl. It's obvious Veneziano doesn't intend any malice.

It reminds me of the way in which I once viewed Russia. Simple and straightforward, and if he's malicious, well, that's just kind of the way it goes. But I pour the wine before I can think too deeply on the implications of Veneziano being much more than he seems.

Italy Romano, meanwhile, has brought two bottles of a really nice Sicilian red wine, which is dark and manages to offset the typical greasiness of game. Romano's not overly enamoured of the goose, either (which is fine, Alfred's happy and Gilbert thinks it's tasty and they were who I was hoping to please), but he is surprisingly polite about not voicing his displeasure, if a bit stiff.

I think part of the problem is he still thinks I'm America, even though I cannot possibly be America since we can all hear America very clearly in the living room. There, he and Gilbert are discussing Prussia's involvement in his Revolutionary War and debating at long length Gilbert's resultant ability to call himself awesome.

(From the sounds of it, Gil's losing.)

I'm not on a first-name basis with Germany, so he too is a bit stiff. Once he has set down the dessert he's brought - some sort of apple cake - he excuses himself politely to accompany Veneziano to the living room, claiming that the silly man needs babysitting.

Kuma-thingy sleeps off the tryptophan from his earlier meal but wakes up after dinner to clear the bones, so I retire to the living room myself since cleanup is now taken care of.

All in all, it's a fairly nice evening. Nothing gets broken - no glasses, plates, or noses - and everyone enjoys the food - Germany's apple cake is really very good. Alfred and Gilbert and the Italies are loud enough that I don't even have to entertain anybody because they sort of entertain themselves, so I can sit back, relax, and put my feet up.

And fade away.

England shows up later, after dessert, having already eaten (though he jumps at the chance for cake when he enquires about the meal), and immediately offers me a drink of gin. He puts a second bottle in my freezer. "Two bottles, really?" I ask him.

"Yes, well, I need it to deal with you!" he returns sarcastically, waving the bottle in my face, and for a moment I'm taken aback by his tone of voice.

I quickly recover, figuring it out. The heaviness of the meal has left me with a pleasant lethargy, so I'm not as sharp as I usually am when I explain, "England, it's Canada."

He squints at me, takes another swig of gin, and I solidify a little. "Oh. _Oh!_ Sorry, lad. So you are. Want some gin? I've got two bottles."

"I noticed," I reply. "Why so much?"

"Wanted to get rid of it before holidays with the Commonwealth. I don't care for Australia when he gets into it. Erm. You _are_ coming, aren't you?"

I hadn't been planning on it, no. But on second thought, this is a great occasion for me to mingle with all- ..._countries_ that I'm on excellent terms with but don't see often. Countries who are close to Russia and surr- rather. Countries who are geographically ideal. Strategically speaking, it would be advisable.

"Of course," I tell him, and he seems happy to hear it.

"Good idea," Kuma-critter mumbles from the floor, gnawing a thighbone.

I don't hear the doorbell ring again until England disappears and reappears with a friend.

"Kat-ah, Ukraine!" I exclaim. I almost forget not to give away her name, which I'm not sure England knows. "You came!"

"You sound surprised," she says sheepishly, with a bottle of Hungarian red wine which she hands me and a bar of very dark chocolate which she sets down on a table. (The chocolate gets whisked away a second later by Romano.)

"I wasn't sure whether to expect you," I reply honestly, and pour her the last of Romano's bottles.

She sidles up closer to me and, accepting the glass of wine, admits quietly, "It took me awhile to realise that I didn't want to be alone."

Katya, it turns out, gets along like a house on fire with Veneziano. For one, it's difficult to tell where his eyes are looking so he doesn't come off as a giant pervert (unlike Alfred, whose eyes are magnetised apparently beyond his control, and who gets a light slap for his troubles that I have to agree he deserves). And for two, he's got this wild charm that endears him to pretty much everybody, including yours truly.

Some people just have it.

Part of me can't lie about being envious. I've ... always liked Katya. In one evening Veneziano gets farther with her than I have in a hundred years. And he's not even serious about it, he's just flirting for the sake of flirting. I'll bet he'll even manage to end the night without Katya feeling like she's been unnecessarily led on, which takes game - game that I know I haven't got. That part of me thinks Veneziano's a dick.

But, the other part of me is a little inebriated, and I'm not typically a sad drunk. Besides, it's really nice to see Katya smile so widely and genuinely. So that part of me thinks Veneziano's kind of an angel, and that part wins.

The message I get mid-evening helps to distract me from whatever self-pity I might have obtained by sulking in the friend-zone.

.:.

**From: pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru**  
**To: matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca**  
**Cc: borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca**  
**Date: November 26, 9:35 PM**  
**Subject: Tax software - keygen**  
**mailed-by: server . dom . ru**

Dear Canada,

It has come to my attention that the keygen I sent you in the file - you ought to have received this by mail by now - has not been used, so here is a new one. Let me know if you still have problems with the executable.

14981760s3360d23100r9180e3570t35t7616c

Yours,  
Rossiya

.:.

That... doesn't look like our code. It also doesn't look like a typical keygen, but perhaps Russia is able to fudge a little more with different software to prevent those who are monitoring him from figuring it out.

I copy and paste the numbers down in the file where I had the key - not that I really need the key anymore, I've got it well memorised (is that sad?). Sure enough, it gives me gobbledegook as-is, which means Russia must have done something to the numbers.

23100 in particular sticks out like a sore thumb. Coming from a logical standpoint ... if we ordered the characters from the underlined words in the poem in ascending order, then no matter how you slice up that word - 2-3-10-0, or 23-10-0 - it doesn't fit. And the final 0 is, what, a placeholder? We haven't used placeholders yet, so why now? (That or we have 100 letters, and the last I checked this was not the case with the English alphabet.)

Supposing he added them all together? No, that would be too many possibilities, I'd be here all evening. And the order of magnitude is wrong.

They're obviously words, separated by the letters.

He must have multiplied them. Looking at the 35, that seems likely. 35 is 7 times 5, and 7 is a, 5 is t - 'at'.

Well, it's a start.

Of course, the longer the number string, the longer it takes me to figure out - and also, these give me anagrams, that I'll then have to solve. But looking around ... Alfred and Gilbert are discussing something loudly, Germany and England are debating soc- ah, football with Romano, Katya's certainly very taken with Veneziano, Kuma-whatsit is stuffing his face...

I appear to have some free time on my hands, and an entertaining puzzle wouldn't go amiss.

I can't admit - not even to myself - how gleeful I get whenever I receive messages from Russia now, because he appears to have a genuine motivation for sending me these messages besides 'hey, here's something fun for you to do'. But it is really thrilling.

14981760 - divide that by 2, get 7490880, again for 3745440, again for 1872720, again 936360, again 468180, geez Russia hope some of these two's are 4's or this is going to be a lot of i's - 234090, once more 117045 - hah, okay, that's out of two's.

Divide 117045 by 5, gives 23409, which is divisible by 3 so 7803, which is again divisible by 3, 2601, another 3, 867, hmmm, another 3 which is 289. 289 I don't recognise as being anything other than 17 squared. So we must end there.

Then, that gives me nine 2's, three 3's, a five, and two seventeens.

The two seventeens must both be c's, since we don't have letters as far as 34. But that still leaves a lot of options. Do the letters he's included have anything to do with it?

Sure enough, for 35 being 'at', it's followed by a t. Possibly he's giving me the last letter as a hint.

So, 's' is 12, takes away two twos and a three, giving seven 2's, two three's, and a five.

Suppose there's one e - well, that's logical, it's the most common letter. So now five 2's, two three's, and a five, since 'e' is 4. We'd get two more 's's if we take four 2's and the two three's, and that leaves either i and t, or a u.

- hmm, that doesn't make any sense ...

- _Ah!_

_Success_.

I almost giggle, I'm so proud of myself.

"Heyyy, what're _you_ up to, so quiet over there in the corner?" slurs Gilbert. He drapes himself over my shoulders heavily, taking a glance at what I'm typing.

I hit save quickly and snap the laptop closed. I'm sure it won't like that but whatever. "Nothing," I reply quickly. I try to be smooth about it.

Gilbert isn't so easily convinced. "Is it _pooooorn?_" he asks in a sing-song voice, grinning.

"Yes, Gilbert, I was looking at _porn_ in the middle of a party," I reply with some significant sarcasm, but I am blushing at the mere mention, and he cackles.

"Okay bastard, shove off, be nice now," says a voice above Gilbert.

"Hey, I'm nice! I'm plenty nice, aren't I?" Gilbert must be a little soused. He flings himself off my shoulders with enough force that it nearly knocks me face-first into the laptop.

"You're something, alright," I reply.

Romano rolls his eyes. "I'm amazed you get invited anywhere," he says. "Quit buggin' the guy who fed you such a nice meal!"

"See, he never lets me have any fun," Gilbert slurs, "if it weren't for his brother I'd never bring him along!"

It's an offhand remark but it evidently makes Romano see red - and to be honest it'd piss me off too if someone said that about me (given how much everybody talks about America this and America that - even England), so I don't blame Romano when he purses his lips, gives Gil a rude gesture and walks out the door to the backyard.

"That was unnecessary," I say.

"Aw, he'll be _fiiiine_. We do this once a week. Anyway, what was I saying about porn at parties?"

Alfred overhears. "Wait, what?"

And that's my cue to exit. I duck out from the conversation and excuse myself to Gil's boisterous cackling.

Italy Romano is outside on the porch having a smoke. I bring him the only ash tray I have at this place (France never visits me in Ottawa anymore, there's a bunch more in Montreal) and say, "Sorry about him."

Romano gives a dry smile. "What've _you_ gotta be sorry for, it's his dumbass attitude, not yours." He exhales a cloud and says, "You fuckin' apologise for everything."

"Well thanks, eh? He's a bit much."

He snorts. "You're tellin' me. He was pestering me the whole way here about why I didn't bring Spain and Spain this, Spain that."

"You could've," I offer.

Romano shrugs. "Didn't wanna. I was already a friend of a friend of a friend coming, didn't wanna impose. An' I didn't know how large your place was. Besides, Spain's _loud_."

So's Romano, but I don't say that. "Y-you're welcome anytime! You or your brother. Although I have to admit, I definitely like your wines more. Uh, a-and you don't mess up my kitchen making tons of extra food."

Romano smiles briefly before the mask of sour replaces itself. "Ehh, I'm sure the potato bastard'll clean it all up if you ignore the mess long enough. Anyway. You too, huh?"

"Hm?"

"You're welcome if you want. Or if you're bored, or whatever. I don't care." He takes a last drag on his cigarette. "But only cause, y'know, you're a better cook than your brother, and you have decent taste in wine, and you don't take Prussia's bullshit."

It takes me a few seconds to realise what he's saying is an invitation, as roundabout and vague as he can make it without having to say the words 'you're invited'. It takes me a further minute to figure out what to say in reply besides a stammered thanks. In the meantime, Romano has shrugged, put out his cigarette, drained his wine and returned inside.

.:.

I work out the rest of the message in my head. First I wait until Gil and Alfred are deep in conversation again and open the laptop only long enough to jot the supposed keygen onto a paper napkin.

The rest is fairly straightforward math. It takes me a good hour only due to the guesswork that I have to do figuring out which numbers go where. It'd be simpler to use primes. If it weren't for the sake of lack of small primes, a code that worked solely like this would be pretty slick, but pretty easy to figure out.

3360d with a final d gives me 2x2x2x2x2x5x3x7. And d is fifteen, so my five and three are gone, which means either a, i, e, e, d; or n, e, e, d - oh, 'need'.

92400 - r, gives 5x2x5x2x3x2x2x7x11, well 11 is r right there, so the rest is either u, u, f, e, a, r - not likely, supposing that's two t's with 5's - t, t, plus a 4 for e, - hm, that looks like 'better'.

9180 - e, okay, so 5x2x3x3x3x17x2 - the 17 must be c, so with e being 4, that's a 15 and a 9 most likely, so d and o. Code.

3570 - t. Then 5x2x3x7x17, this one is easy, 17 for c, the t gives me the 5, so remaining is 2, 3, 7. Probably h, a. Chat.

Chat at, chat at what?

7616 - c gives me 17x2x2x2x2x2x2x7, so 17 with c, 7 is a, with six powers of two, that has to be no more than 16 - p, and 4, e. APEC.

_Success. Need better code chat at APEC._

Indeed we do need a better code, but ... where? When?

Is he asking me not to send anything more? He said the letters were being suspected. If I write any more letters, using the code more would likely give them, whoever they are, more material to decode. A better ability to decode it.

I suppose you can only send messages for so long until the same numbers keep popping up; associate them with the most common English letters and it wouldn't take a master code breaker to work out the message. Anyone who's played Hangman before will do nicely.

Right. No more messages, then, until we can get figure out something more sophisticated.

It makes me more than a little sad for more than one reason.

But then someone in the party picks that moment to topple over a non-empty wineglass and I have another happy distraction.

.:.

I try not to show up too early for England's commonwealth holiday celebration. Usually it starts with food, and ... I want to avoid that part.

Although England can somehow conjure up an amazing dessert, so I can't be late for that. (Sticky toffee pudding. Oh man. I could eat that all day.)

Australia answers the door with a bucket of KFC in his arms.

"Really?" I ask sarcastically.

"Mrf krsh!" he replies, swallows, and repeats himself, "of course! I wasn't going to eat _England's_ chicken." He yells back to the kitchen, "You poke the breast, it still bleeds."

"Not my fault," shrieks England from the kitchen, "it was a degree conversion thing! How was I supposed to know they meant 200 degrees centigrade! So much easier using _gas marks_ -" then there's a giant crash and a puff of smoke - "bollocks, bollocks bollocks shit damn _bugger!_"

"Salmonella's England's gift theme this year," I joke. Then I hand him his actual gift. "Here. Something a little less biohazard. Happy Christmas, it's good to see you."

"You too, didn't 'spect you to show. Oi, and ya didn't have do this," Australia says, blushing. He mumbles, "I didn't get _you_ anything, mate."

"Oh, it's nothing, just something small. The kiwi around?"

The kiwi is, in fact, and is watching the rugby game in the TV room with Wales and Northern Ireland. None of them look up from the tube until gifts appear in front of their faces.

India's there too, and though I have to wave wildly in front of his face before he can see me, he actually greets me when he does. He also complains that rugby's boring and that once this game is through they're catching the tail end of the test match. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek as I hand over his present. He squeals in delight - because he doesn't celebrate Christmas, and he knows I know this, which means this is just for fun - then coughs to try and recover some seriousness.

Perhaps it's a bit manipulative, but little gifts are tools to me. If it's a grand extravagant gesture, people become embarrassed and defensive (unless they're narcissists). Nobody likes owing people things, and the bigger the thing owed, the less they like you for it, because the more they expect you're going to hold that favour over their heads, even if you never intend to call it in.

If, however, it's just a small token of your appreciation - and the timing is right - then people accept it a lot more gracefully. They'll still feel like they owe you - and maybe they might - but the favour they feel they must repay is so much smaller in magnitude that the stress involved is practically non-existent. And it becomes your foot in the door.

Anyway, between that and asking everybody about themselves instead of dominating the conversation with myself as a topic (like Alfred, or Gilbert), I manage pretty well, relations-wise, despite being invisible and inaudible.

By the time gifts are passed out - a little tea, and some of my homemade fudge - England has joined us from the kitchen with scorch marks on his apron and a slightly smoldering eyebrow. I reach over and pinch out the spark. "Thanks," he says. "Pudding's in an hour. Didn't think you'd show up."

"That's twice I've heard that tonight."

"Well, the last few years I've sort of mistaken you for America." England looks sheepish. "I, er, wouldn't've blamed you."

That puts a real smile on my face. "At least you got it right this time," I say brightly.

Wales overhears - evidently the rugby game's over - and slings an arm over England's shoulders heavily. "He had some help. All day we've been reminding him that America wouldn't show."

"Well," England says stiffly, ducking out of Wales' arm, "he _isn't_ part of the Commonwealth, after all." But that's never stopped the other partygoers - England included - from mistaking me for America, anyway. I need to bake cookies for whoever it was who convinced them of my existence this year.

I don't spend long at England's, at any time of the year; no more than a couple of days. Guests, he told me once, while I was staying with him, are like fish: after a few days the air sours. He backtracked quickly then, stumbling over his words, and saying that he didn't mean me, really! But I understood. And most of the commonwealthers make it a day's visit and no more (excepting Scotland, who is apparently staying with France this season, to England's utter mortification and Australia's mad glee).

As for myself, I'll stay just long enough to ... finish my task, and then I too can go home.

Wales, like Prussia, somehow manages to see me more easily than most, so I spend a fair amount of time talking to him over the next few days, and he teaches me how to make sausages and rabbit without any meat - all while taking potshots at England's character which England takes in surprisingly good stride (well, for England).

Wales hasn't quite got an army besides the Welsh Guards and the Royal Welsh - who I'll admit I know of only from being linked with _le Royal 22e Régiment_ - so in terms of friends, it appears as though he's a poor choice. But you mustn't underestimate the fury of the Red Dragon. Or more precisely, the ability of the Red Dragon to nag England into motion. If I require England's help, it will come more quickly and be ultimately a much stronger blow if I have Wales to back me up.

Wales is also very good at nagging Scotland. And if Scotland is spending Christmas with France this year, that means I basically get France for free. Which is good, because having accepted England's Commonwealth Christmas invite means I declined France's _Noel avec la Francophonie_invite. (It's like having divorced parents; I can never manage to make both sides happy.)

I exchange a few words with Malta, who is a swarthy and shy young girl of perhaps 14 or 15, about Liechtenstein's age. Like Liechtenstein, she has her hair styled in a short bob with rough edges, tied with a ribbon. But unlike Liechtenstein, she's a lot more independent. She's spent time with Italy - both of them - Spain, France, and England, and though she recognises England most as a big brother, they don't often have the chance to speak more than once a year. She's also had moments of extreme mil- (ahem) _military brilliance_ - this is the tiny little girl who, with a bit of Allied help, managed to waylay Germany and Italy for six whole months, without her own army at the time - so her age and size are deceptive.

Cameroon and Nigeria show up in the afternoon two days later, which provides me a brilliant excuse to get out of having to eat England's cooking by taking them out for curry. (Though I was told later by Wales that New Zealand and India managed to convince him to order takeout instead. Still delicious. I never regret curry.)

My relations with both of them have been pretty friendly for the most part and we spend the afternoon chatting about current affairs. Cameroon's government is downright authoritarian, he says, and the southern parts want to secede. He's is good at hiding the stress; I can only see the lines in his face under fluorescent light.

Nigeria is doing _much_ better than the last time I saw her. She says the recent health projects from our developmental agency have been progressing well and the market seems to be responding positively to the input from the financial side of things. Then she starts talking about frontier economies and I get a little lost. I manage to fake knowing what she's talking about enough for her to invite me to a conference she's holding in March.

I try to say hi to Gambia but he ignores the hell out of me. Fine, you jerk, I think, be like that. See if you get any fudge.

.:.

Northern Ireland leaves after breakfast on Boxing Day before we get much of a chance to talk (staying long enough for the meal, after hearing that I'm the one making breakfast). India however stays a few days longer, and we chat at long length about everything and nothing.

I don't see India very often though I know he has places all over Canada - a high rise in Toronto, a small bungalow in Vancouver, a really nice penthouse suite in downtown Calgary, and temples here and there. He also smells amazing, but as we've established, I'm fond of his cuisine. With little convincing, he makes us all a nice eggplant dish that evening in exchange for my pancakes the following morning.

This is good. This is very good. Because India would probably be the most important a- ally to have if needed. He's close geographically to Russia. Plus he's got a certain personality cultivated from years of Mughal rule, British rule, and opposition with Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka (and those are just his siblings).

It has the tendency to make him a little abrasive and a little impulsive.

In fact sometimes he comes off as borderline bipolar.

But that's okay! For the most part, he has a no-nonsense attitude that is strict but still agreeable. And we're on excellent terms, which means I could probably trust him.

"I was sorry to hear about those insurgency attacks on the trains," I tell him.

"Yeah, me too," he agrees. "What a waste. Waste of flesh, waste of bombs, waste of decent trains."

"I thought the counter-terrorism speech by Patel was particularly inspired."

"Really? I thought it was particularly _insipid_. Blah blah deeply saddened by this senseless act, blah blah cannot resolve with acts of violence. Come on, same old stuff. I can't stand my boss." His attention is mostly on the cricket match. "_No_, you idiot, what are you - oof! _Stay there!_Stay the fuck _there!_" Needless to say, the batsman doesn't listen to him, and winds up out. "Goddammit, you moron, serves you right."

Ladies and gentlemen, India.

We watch in silence for awhile until the match cuts to a commercial break. It's then that India tears his vision from the television and smiles at me, very suddenly, a bright, wide toothy grin. "Okay, seriously though, maple-ji, cut to the chase."

"Uh, what?"

He laughs. "Don't play dumb with me! You know I'm older than I look. Really good dark chocolate, that was my favourite by the way, homemade fudge, and you've been chatting me up all weekend." India bats his eyelashes coquettishly. "You _want_ something."

"I can't just give an old friend a very belated Diwali gift?" India laughs even harder, and normally, I'd be laughing along too. Instead my cheeks are warm and I'm trying not to disappear. How am I so obvious to him? "You really think I'm that machiavellian?" Yes, defensive route! That always works, right?

"Hmm. And you're acting all pricey. Must be _big_ big. You want me to play the guessing game? Alright, I'll bite." He pretends to concentrate for a bit. "Lentil exports?"

"I already give you most of mine."

"That's true. Hey, have you got that solar power thing down yet? You know I'd be interested." No, and we never will if Campbell won't quit it with the oil fields. Which India knows full well, so he's teasing me, again. "Guess that isn't it. There is one other option..."

Suddenly his eyes narrow - the kohl he wears around them makes him look three times as dangerous. I feel like a mouse pinned by the gaze of a viper. "But you would never be so silly as to seriously contemplate propositioning me. Because you know I'd shoot your ass down in flames, maple-bhai."

Oh geez. "N-no! Not that - not that you're _not_ - but I just, _well!_ -"

Thankfully he interrupts me by giggling.

He's _joking_, that hoser.

I wish this were the first time he's done this. I also wish I could tell when it was coming because even after some seventy years of diplomatic relations, I still can't.

"I love doing that to the nice ones," he says. "_Arey_, if you don't want things, then you must want help with things. Now - what could these things be..." India puts his hands together, rubbing the palms back and forth.

Finally he claps his hands. "I know! Pakistan's not paying his rent in his Toronto apartment and you're a pushover, so you need one proper bully with some real fight to go bug him for it?"

"No, he's been pretty cool. Haven't heard any complaints." I don't bother rushing to Pakistan's defence since he isn't even coming to England's for Christmas. This may be why India's stayed so long. Those two have a habit of calling each other various names like cheap. (In fact... most countries have a habit of calling their closest relatives cheap. It's at the point where it doesn't mean anything anymore.)

...D-Don't think that pushover comment went unnoticed, either!

I'm just, you know, holding my tongue.

"Want ISRO to jumpstart something for your space agency?"

"N- well now that you mention it, that's not a terrible idea -"

"You want to help someone in need and you're building a collection of ... _special friends_ to do it."

Not a question.

Which means he's suspected it was this all along.

But ... I can't make it look like I came here for that! You have to understand, our kind have a certain social rulebook where conflict is concerned. It would be tacky to come to Christmas solely to flirt my way to a winning side of w- of wa- of conflict.

"What would make you say that? I-I mean, you certainly are valiant but there's no sign of - of ..."

I make hand gestures to convey the meaning while avoiding saying the words.

India doesn't seem to understand.

I sigh. "Of... _you know what_ on the horizon."

"Ideal geographical location?"

"I'm on decent terms with everyone in that area," I say lightly. It's not untrue.

"What about _just in case?_"

"There's always room for a just in case," I remind him, "you could go mad trying to plan for that."

"True enough," he says. "So, _yehi hai_ defence help issue."

I need to get him off this topic! "No, it's, it's really not. I don't need help with the defence side of things," I insist. "I have my own forces!"

"Ha, and that makes you a big boy now, does it? Is it guns you want then? Thought you might ask Russia instead."

"India -"

"Not artillery! Perhaps tanks?"

"It's not, I don't need -"

"Air power? We're not so keen on that."

I scoff. "I could ask America for those if that were it."

"Right, Mister Big Hero Pilot-ji. Then it's that stockpile of, ah, _special arms_ that I like you all to pretend I don't have; that has nothing to do with it?"

"India! No. Gosh. I've got my own nuclear stash too, this isn't -"

India is immediately silent, wide brown eyes and flatlined humour.

It takes me a second to figure out why.

What did I just _say?_ I shut my mouth with a firm snap - it was gaping open. I'm appalled at my brain for not filtering these kinds of things. Shrinking into my chair, I ask quietly, "Is there any chance I can eat those words?" Specifically the n-word.

India shakes his head, his expression somewhere between querying and serious. I feel my skin prickle as I start to disappear, but he sees me doing it and snaps, "Ohh, no you don't. Not on me, boss."

India, if I could help it, I would, believe me.

"Then I think I'm going to take a short walk, if you don't mind." I get up before he can reply, abandoning my tea - and him. (Awfully unfriendly, yes, but damn, what a gaffe that was.) I head for the door to shove on my boots and overcoat.

I should have known I couldn't lose him that easily. "Wales!" India hollers back to the TV room. "I'm taking your jacket!"

"No, I can hear alright," he calls back, too busy kicking Australia's ass at Mario Kart to hear correctly, "you're not making a racket." I burst out England's front door before India's got his shoes on.

Because _this_ is why I decided to come to England's Christmas celebration. Making special friends. Making _military allies_ - hanging out with people because they're _useful to me_ - oh gosh I shouldn't even be capable of _thinking_ like this. Is this all because of Colin's defence spending?

But something inside me tells me it isn't. Something's different, and it's like those times, like the world wars, when in addition to my bosses spending money on building rockets and tanks and bombs, I too felt the stirring, riotous cry of _to arms, brave souls_.

I don't like to remember those times.

So why can I _think like them?!_

What the hell is wrong with me? No country - not since the Cold War ended - speaks the n-word aloud among ourselves. I'd rather call everybody I love cheap!

First I start thinking about friends who might help in a fight. Since when did this imply a fight, anyway? Since when do I fight with weapons? I'm supposed to be the peacekeeper!

Though, that isn't strictly true, either. It is not for nothing that I receive tulips once a year, for example. The things I've done ... haven't always been playing fair.

But times have changed, and nobody fights like that anymore, right? Right?

Didn't I learn after the Suez Crisis how important it was to fight with words? Didn't we all learn after the Cuban Missile Crisis that squirrelling away ato- those kinds of missiles wasn't the way to go? Did I just forget all of that?

And - and for what? For _Russia!_ Russia, who still hasn't told me what he wants this help for. I - I don't even know whether his problems require this, this... _military allies and defence!_

Because that is what I'm doing. Let's call a spade a spade - I came out to see friends, yes, and normally that is what I do. International relations for the simple sake of international relations are what I'm really good at.

But there's been a deeper, ulterior motive at play behind my actions this season - one that I hadn't even realised I harboured - and that's making friends _in preparation of a fight_. And unfortunately I'm also really good at that.

And I was doing it _all along_, and I didn't even realise.

Maybe Russia's bosses aren't the only ones who think the Cold War never ended.

I _need_ to talk to Russia. I have to know what I'm fighting for, since apparently, I'm already operating in fight-mode.

"Hey wait up!" I stop and turn; India's about fifty metres away. We've managed to find ourselves in a small, sleepy park. A few trees. A quiet overcast afternoon, the sky a dove grey. Snow gently dusted over the ground. People probably walk their dogs here, or, or feed pigeons.

So idyllic. It's strangely fitting how even this mocks the conflicted, torn way I feel right now. I sit down heavily on the bench, feeling glum, and he approaches and takes a seat beside me where someone has scratched 'Nurya' and a heart.

"So," he says. "You going to tell everything about this person who has caused such a great change in you? Mister peacekeeper, mister _fight with words not with arms._"

"It's, um, complicated," I say, hoping it'll throw him off, but of course it doesn't and he just sits there, looking expectant. "There's this - this friend. And they're ... uh, in a bit of trouble. I think. I-I don't really know. We haven't had much of a chance to talk freely recently, I kind of get the impression they're being monitored, really closely. And, and I want to help."

"What can you _possibly_ do to help?" India asks. His tone is soft and gentle, but the words sting anyway. He's right. What the hell can I possibly do?

"I don't even know. I don't know if there's anything I can do. But I - I want to try. I think... I think I might be the only one who can help. That's what ...they've said to me."

"And help means one stockpile of ... you-know-what-kind bombs as just in case, hmm?"

I don't really have anything constructive to say to that.

"So have you slept with her, or are you just madly in love?" is India's first question.

It takes me a second to stop coughing. Silly Matthew, air is not for swallowing.

"Um," I stammer, when I can breathe properly again, "w-what?"

"It's got to be a she," India says thoughtfully. "Otherwise you wouldn't be tripping on pronouns like this. I know you. And there is such small number females than males, for us, you're hiding a her. Otherwise I'd be able to guess who it is. You're very obvious." He grins. "So, you like her then?"

"Oh, oh gosh, _maple_, I hardly ..."

I don't even know what to say to that!

On the upside, this has definitely got my mind off the more sensitive topics. I'm really glad, and completely horrified, that India is suspecting this. It gives me an easy out, sure, which is good, but - but -

But I _don't_, obviously! There's no way that I - that I -

I can't even think about it!

Russia and, and me - we're hardly even friends. I'm not attracted to him.

I mean he isn't _un_attractive! I just - I'm _not_.

India giggles. "It's cute. Young love."

"No," I tell him. "I - it's not like that. This is just, um. This is just me wanting to help someone who seems to really need it." Someone who reached out to me and asked for help. How could I refuse?

"Yeah okay, yaar, so you keep telling yourself that. But I know you," he says, tapping the side of his nose and then pointing at me with his finger, almost admonishingly - so characteristically English a move that I might call him on it if I weren't so scared he'd break my jaw - "and_you_ are not like this. You are not like this at all."

"What, are - heh, are you saying I've changed?"

"Achha, love changes people, but no, not changed." India's eyes narrow sharply. "Chang_ing_. I don't know if I like it much."

"I'm not -"

"But countries change. This is as events are. I know I have changed; it's more than only not calling myself Sindhu Valley."

"This is why I don't talk too often," I mumble.

"No, honey, it's fine! Listen. I hope she's worth it, bhai. And you know. If she isn't you let me know and I'll good swift kick her in the dicky. Okay well I won't _actually_. But you keep your head, okay? Don't go ... being your brother. You keep calm and carry on. She wants Canada, you give her that."

I smile, though weakly.

"Also," he continues, "India will support Canada no problem, no questions."

"I didn't really. I mean, you don't have to."

"I know I don't. And you did really. But I will let you deny it if that makes you feel better." India takes a quick, deep, purifying breath. "Chal! Let's go get something to eat! And you can tell me all about your lady-friend."

Something should go here about frying pans and fires, but at this point I'm too exhausted to be witty. I just let India drag me to the nearest chip stand.

.:.

Avoiding that topic is difficult. Over fish and chips India tries to worm a few things out of me and I stay tight lipped as long as possible. He asks if it's Ukraine - since she and I are so close that I use her first name, and since India doesn't know of any other female nation who's taken up permanent semi-annual residence in Canada - and I blush - partly because I _do_ like Katya (gosh do I like Katya), and partly because India's guess is so close it's terrifying - but manage to deny it.

So now India's convinced it's Katya who needs help. But that allows me an easy out to distract him, and talk about the other female nations - and other nations, period - who have emigrated in large enough flocks that their representatives have taken up residence in a Canadian city.

Which works just as well, because in the end India's got it narrowed down to a small list. And let him keep guessing all he wants, because Russia's not on it.

.:.

When I return on the morning of the 31st, picking up a very well-fed and slightly heavier Kuma-whatsit from the kennel (and by kennel, I mean forest) I find another envelope from Moscow in my mailbox.

Instantly my heart begins to pound.

It's a card again, though instead of an adorable cartoon monkey with freakishly large ears, it's a picture of what seems to be downtown Moscow, with "C Hobiu Togou" written in curly script. The inside explains, _C Hobiu Togou - pronounced s novim godim - happy new year. Fondest regards, Poccur - Russia_.

I'm glad I sent him a Christmas card after all. I wasn't sure whether it'd get past whatever filters he's got, but at least I tried.

...Of course, I'm slightly less interested in the card itself.

With greedy fingers I peel back the envelope as gently as I can and slide my nail underneath the folds, where the paper is glued together. I get more than a few paper cuts for my troubles, but so what, as long as I don't bleed all over the message that I suspect is there, I'm good.

I'm not disappointed. The message written is written faintly in ink pen, so lightly that it hardly makes an impression on the other side. It isn't coded.

_Security is becoming much tighter, so this must be the last message. Still, I doubt they will find this note. Thank you for all of your help. You do not know how much it means to me. I shall see you in May. -Ivan_

My pulse races and my cheeks grow warm.

Ivan. His name is Ivan.

Of _course_ his name is Ivan. It suits him so well I don't know how I might ever consider any other option. It's graceful and elegant but still classic and simple. _Ivan_. Ivanivanivan.

I ring in the new year alone, but strangely more content than I have been in some time.

.:.

Thank you for reading! until next time! :)


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